


Falls the Angel

by KatyaJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance, Sherlock Feels, Strong Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyaJade/pseuds/KatyaJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back, Molly Hooper could pinpoint the exact moment her life went spectacularly to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> **Hello everyone. I've been so, so inspired by the wonderful Sherlock fiction around here that this bunny hopped its way into my head. This is my first foray into Sherlock so I'm a tad nervous about 'getting Sherlock right'. I appreciate any constructive criticism.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **As always I don't write for profit, these characters are not mine (just the bizarre things I do to them), yadda, yadda. Thank you to dr_girlfriend for her beta work.**
> 
> **Cheers. :)**

~oOo~

Looking back, Molly Hooper could pinpoint the exact moment her life went spectacularly to hell. It wasn’t when she spilled lunch down the front of her laboratory smock or when her boss, Mike Stamford, informed her that budget cuts would mean she would be forced to work extra shifts to cover the loss of St. Bart’s part time pathology staff (she was always at the lab anyway).

No, her day entered the stuff of nightmares when she pulled back the sheet covering her next autopsy and was greeted by the words _I Love U Molly Hooper_ carved into the dead man’s chest.

~oOo~

“Flowers.”

Sherlock Holmes’ deep baritone voice reverberated through the laboratory. Molly shouldn’t have been surprised at his presence since his latest case had kept him in the facility every day for a week. Today, however, her distraction coupled by his sudden appearance upon her return from dinner caused her to gasp in surprise. She took a breath to calm herself before stepping forward to place the patient files on her workstation. It had been three months since Sherlock Holmes’ resurrection (so dubbed by the press) and while he’d resumed his day to day routine as a Consulting Detective without regard to the repercussions of his two year absence, Molly Hooper hadn’t been so lucky. The tabloids and newspapers were obsessed with Sherlock’s story and developed all manner of wild theories into the orchestration of his ‘death.’ 

Kitty Riley, the reporter who’d so staunchly defended Richard Brook was utterly humiliated that she’d been so thoroughly deceived by Moriarty. Kitty’s single minded determination to rehabilitate her reputation caused the unscrupulous reporter to focus her efforts on digging up (fabricating) as many stories as possible about Sherlock Holmes and his circle of ‘co-conspirators’. More than one of those stories focused on Molly. The salacious titles and grainy photographs of the diminutive pathologist adorned the tabloids.

_Doctor Hooper - The Real Mastermind Behind Sherlock Holmes?_

_Mild Mannered Molly or Hot to Trot Hooper?_

As a result, Molly had begun to receive letters, packages and emails both lauding her brilliance and damning her devotion to Sherlock Holmes. Molly didn’t have any regrets about helping Sherlock with his disappearance, but this intrusion into her private life was disconcerting and, if she were being completely honest, a little frightening.

“The flowers arrived this morning. Expensive. Imported.”

Sherlock Holmes didn’t bother looking up from the microscope as he commented again on the vase of flowers sitting atop Molly Hooper’s desk. She clenched her teeth and breathed through her nose, a failed attempt to dismiss the seeds of anger blossoming from his casual intrusion (again) into her private life. While she still had feelings for Sherlock, the frustration at his continued indifference and insensitivity was finally taking its toll on her. He’d offered an offhanded thank you for her help in the orchestration of his disappearance. Before leaping from the hospital roof, Sherlock had told her that she counted. That declaration had made her heart soar at the idea that she might hold some place of importance, no matter how small, in his life. But since his return, the aforementioned appreciation for her had vanished. He continued to be self absorbed and rude. On occasion, she could see some effort on his part to be cordial, but those instances were few and far between. Combined with his constant inability to treat her as anything more than his laboratory assistant, she was insanely frustrated.

To complicate her already stressed life, there were the flowers. Upon the first delivery, she had been flattered and hoped that they might serve to prompt some jealousy in Sherlock. As it turned out, it didn’t. Not in the least. Molly was tired of harboring a schoolgirl crush when the object of affection couldn’t be bothered to even inquire about her well being. It was time to stop putting Sherlock Holmes first. Molly opened her eyes and turned back to her desk, sitting at her chair and pulling up the computer file of her latest case notes.

“Yes, Sherlock. Expensive flowers. Brilliant conclusion. Amazed you even noticed anything besides yourself.”

Sherlock slowly lifted up his head, eyes narrow with concentration. Molly was upset. Stop. Correction. Frustrated. Angry. (With him? Possibly. Probably.) Tired as well - the skin under her eyes dark and the sclera tinged red from lack of sleep and overwork. Molly’s jaw clenched and unclenched and her lips pursed together in an obvious attempt not to continue her sarcastic remarks.

“Not difficult to notice. This is the fourth bouquet delivered in the last month.”

Molly didn’t answer. 

“They are from the same person, no doubt.”

The click of the keyboard served as her response to Sherlock’s observation.

“The appearance of the flowers concerns you but not enough for you to dispose of them or refuse their delivery. This tells me you enjoy the attention but, at the same time, you are unsettled by the idea of an anonymous admirer. Your association with Jim obviously an unpleasant reminder of your inability to properly deduce the nature of a man’s intentions toward you…”

“Sherlock, _stop_.” She interrupted, her voice raised and forceful. Molly’s eyes snapped up and met Sherlock’s gaze. “I am not in the mood to be _deduced_ by you today. Please just continue with your work while I do mine.” The tension in her eyes softened slightly and her forehead crinkled slightly with her next word. “Please.”

Sherlock nodded his head. “I...apologize.”

He turned his attention back to the slides and made a few notes on his observations. He surreptitiously watched as Molly continued typing. Fear. Her annoyance and subsequent harsh tone weren’t simply due to his commentary (note for the future; pay attention to timing) regarding the flowers. Fear was at the heart of Molly’s exhaustion and emotional upheaval. He’d announced his return three months prior with a press conference (Mycroft’s idea) and full disclosure of the manner of his supposed death. Sherlock attempted to shield Molly from inquiries, but even the most blundering of journalists would have been able to put the pieces together regarding her involvement. Sherlock considered it unfortunate that she (John and Lestrade as well) had been subject to such invasive treatment by the press.

Molly was a good friend. The day Molly told him that she ‘didn’t count’, Sherlock realized just how much he’d taken advantage of her feelings for him. As soon as Molly had walked out the lab, he’d mentally chastised himself for yet another failure to comprehend the intricacies of human emotion. He trusted her as much as he trusted John. She’d demonstrated her friendship and devotion to Sherlock more times than he could count and yet he’d failed to acknowledge the place of importance she held in his life. 

Then he died.

During his absence, he’d found that he missed her more than he’d expected; their easy camaraderie, her consistent presence, even her fumbled attempts at flirting often made Sherlock’s chest ache with longing. (Indication of affection? More than friendship? Under consideration.) For so many years he’d convinced himself that emotions would cloud his judgement. Sherlock surprised himself by finally accepting the inaccuracy of that conclusion. While tracking Moriarty’s network, keeping thoughts of John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in the back of his mind was far from a distraction. In point of fact, those feelings helped him maintain the resolve to continue. 

Molly’s state of mind regarding these anonymous gifts concerned him. The flowers were obviously sent by an admirer and delivered during times when she was absent from the lab. No delivery notice, no card, and no sticker from the flower shop meant that the individual knew Sherlock would attempt to track the sender. One delivery might have been written off as a mild crush. Two bouquets indicate an attachment. Four, however, demonstrate the admirer’s focused attention and, with no other accompanying information (No request for a date, no letter declaring his - her - intentions), indicate more sinister motives. Sherlock didn’t like the situation in the least. 

Molly finished her computer entry, pushed her chair back and stood up, stretching her back as she rose. One last autopsy and she would be done for the evening. She headed for the connecting door between the lab and the autopsy room. Once again, she was stopped by Sherlock’s resounding voice.

“Is it necessary for you to complete another autopsy tonight?”

She didn’t turn around, but cocked her head to the side to speak. “Yes, it _is_ necessary. Lestrade needs the report tomorrow morning.” Molly didn’t wait for his reply and left the room - Sherlock’s eyes followed her form as she exited.

Sherlock placed his hands in his lap and sat for a moment. His research was finished but he would wait for Molly to complete her autopsy. Walk her home and ensure her apartment was secure. Mycroft. Extra security needed to be called and his brother did, after all, owe Molly Hooper a debt for her actions to help orchestrate his death. Sherlock smiled at the thought of his brother owing the petite brunette a favor.

His smile disappeared at the sound of Molly screaming.

~oOo~


	2. Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Many thanks for the kudos and to the gracious review, Len. I hope this story continues to interest you.**
> 
> **I must express my undying appreciation for all the support (beta and writing) I've received from hobbitsdoitbetter. This story would not be where it is without her. :)**
> 
> **Onward and upward, my friends.**

~oOo~

Sherlock shot up from where he sat and sprinted the short distance to the door. The stool hit the floor with a clang and his shoes pounded on the floor - the sounds a cacophony in the previously quiet space. He grabbed the handle, pulled and was immediately met with the sight of Molly - her hands clutched to her chest, pure terror shrouding her face as she stared at the autopsy table. (No physical injuries noted.) He scanned the room quickly, ascertaining no immediate threat within the room. Holmes walked to the slab, his ever observant eyes darting between the body and Molly’s ashen face as he moved. As soon as he stood next to the corpse, data flooded his brain. Writing - carved into the chest. Knife. Stop. Correction. Scalpel or small paring knife. Fresh wounds. Ten hours old at the outset. The wounds not consistent with cause of death. Inflicted post-mortem. Did the perpetrator commit the murder first then wait until the body arrived here to act? Possibility. A small ceramic angel sat next to the victim’s head. Message, obviously. Meaning unclear (unknown) at this stage. Warning? Gift? Taunt? All viable possibilities.

Movement interrupted his ruminations and Sherlock turned to see the tail end of Molly’s lab smock fluttering out the door. He paused only a moment (Gather evidence? Pursue Molly?) before deciding that Molly should take priority. Only in part because of his concern for her well being - Molly was instrumental in providing him with information regarding the corpse. He followed her into the laboratory where she sat at her desk, face held in her hands, body shaking.

“You’re...distressed.”

His voice held such a genuinely surprised tone, it almost made Molly chuckle. Some obsessed... _stalker_ had carved a love letter worthy of Jack the Ripper into a dead man’s chest and this was Sherlock’s reaction: incredulity. Molly squeezed her eyes shut - she didn’t want to look at him. If she looked at him, either one of two things would happen. She would either scream or cry. Neither seemed like a very productive reaction at this point in time.

“That would be one word for it, yes.”

“Understandable.” He stepped forward and placed his hands behind his back. “However, we should begin the process of gathering evidence immediately. Shall I give you a few moments to compose yourself?”

He was serious. Completely serious. His reaction was vintage Sherlock: Deduce. Investigate. Calculate. One word asking after her well being would have been nice, but, as usual, she expected too much from him.

Screaming sounded like the appropriate option now.

“I think I might need more than a few moments.”

“Molly, we need to review the data.” Sherlock stepped forward, pointing toward the autopsy room as if to remind her of the importance of the situation. “If we’re going to determine the identity of the person stalking you, it’s imperative…”

“I know, Sherlock. I _know_.” Her voice wavered and the sting of tears rose in her eyes. “Just give me a few minutes to calm down, alright?”

The fear threatened to choke her. Once, when she was a teenager, a friend goaded Molly into going to a fun house. The anticipation and nervousness made her feel alive. She knew she was going to be scared out of her wits, but the excitement was intoxicating. This was entirely different. She felt no excitement or thrill from knowing the stranger who’d sent her beautiful flowers also defiled a corpse - maybe murdered someone - in a sick sign of affection. If he was capable of this - what else could he have in mind for her? The images of all the bodies she’d seen raped, tortured and...worse flashed through her mind. Absolute terror roiled in her gut and spread through her body. She sat back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to settle her shaking form.

Molly didn’t want to look at Sherlock. She couldn’t bear seeing the cold look on his face. All she wanted in this moment was a friend. Someone to reassure her that everything would be alright, that she would be safe. But he stood in his Sherlock-way, watching her. Observing her. She just wanted to get out. Get away from him - away from the flowers and the body and...everything. She would go to John and Mary’s. They would help. They would _care_.

Sherlock rarely felt anxious. The unwanted emotion crept up on him in situations involving the people close to him. He’d experienced this...distress...when he’d seen Mrs. Hudson in the hands of the American mercenaries and when Moriarty informed him that John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would be assassinated should he fail to leap off the roof of St. Barts. Anxiety. Fear. It clouded his judgement and the one thing Sherlock Holmes relied on was his logic. But standing here and watching Molly Hooper tremble with panic, he felt the familiar tendrils of pressure in his chest. Someone wanted to hurt her. That made _him_ want to hurt _them_. Immensely. 

A few more minutes passed before Molly moved. She picked up her bag, digging in the inside pocket where she found her phone and keys. 

“I just...I can’t do this right now, Sherlock. I’ll come back in the morning.” 

“You can’t leave, Molly.”

She stopped and closed her eyes - fresh tears spilled from her lashes as the last of her resolve crumbled. “I’m tired, scared and I just want to _go_ , alright? I’ll...I’ll stay at John and Mary’s. I’m sure you’ll find all the evidence you need on your own. I’ll help you however I can tomorrow.” 

“Leaving is inadvisable. Whoever did this obviously gained access to the hospital, morgue and lab in order to deliver the flowers and deface the corpse while you were absent. The perpetrator may be watching you now. You are not safe to go off alone.”

“I’ll take a taxi, I’m sure I’ll be fine in a taxi.” She grasped at logic, trying to think above the exhaustion and fear. “Security will walk me out.”

“Taxis are not always safe, Molly. My past is proof enough of that.” The flash of the taxi driver’s calculating smile appeared before his eyes. “ _Let me take you for a ride_ ,” he’d said before Sherlock climbed into the vehicle. If it hadn’t been for John’s sure and true aim, Moriarty’s game might have been finished then.

Molly finally turned around and looked at his face. The uncaring, condescending glare she expected was absent. There was a sincerity in his gaze - much like the softness in his face that night of the Christmas party after he’d so cruelly insulted her. It was tempting to read in to this moment more than was really there. He’d last spoken with her as a friend over two years ago when he’d come to her in the lab asking for her help ( _You’ve always counted._ ) and she’d longed for another time like that - where the two of them could be alone and talk. But the cruel irony of this situation taunted her. Sherlock Holmes was interested in her - as a _case_. As means to an end. It was too much. She couldn’t be around him one minute longer. 

“Then I’ll call Mary to pick me up, alright? But I can’t stay here right now.” The tears stung her eyes anew.

She moved to leave when she heard Sherlock’s quick steps and felt his hand on her shoulder. Sherlock never touched her...never touched anyone for that matter, if he could help it. But here he stood, his large hand solid on her arm, his next words gentle yet commanding. 

“Molly...don’t leave. You're tired, I can see that, but allow me an hour. Then I’ll escort you to John and Mary’s.”

Maybe it was the combination of his touch, his eyes - those beautiful, captivating eyes - and her fatigue that lowered her defenses. Maybe it was the desire for Sherlock Holmes to express himself as a human being rather than as a consulting detective. Maybe it was all those factors culminated in this instant, because she felt the words leave her mouth before her brain could protest. 

“Are you saying this because you _care_ or because I’m the best chance you have to gather evidence, Sherlock?”

He dropped his hand back to his side, suddenly uncomfortable. The moment had become too... _personal_. Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to sentimental physical gestures - a pat on the back, holding another person’s hand. It just wasn’t _done_. But, with Molly, he found that, from time to time, he wondered what it would be like to touch _her_. It was a fleeting thought - birthed from boredom in the lab more often than not. But it was there nonetheless. He’d harbored curiosity about intercourse with The Woman. Natural male reaction based on her overtures toward him and their similar… irregularities. His interest in Molly, however, tended toward affection. The influence of these feelings on his normally reasoned mind unsettled him; the flower deliveries had even stirred something in him akin to ... jealousy. And Sherlock Holmes resolutely did not get jealous. During his two year absence, he may have thought of Molly with other men - with Moriarty - and the seeping anger at the idea of that loathsome cretin sharing intimacies with _his_ pathologist may have made him entirely unable to think logically- may have distracted him more even than thoughts of his Fall, in point of fact- but that was _not_ jealousy, that was _worry_ -

Stop. Refocus. There was work to be done. Now wasn’t the time to examine these emotions. (They’re self-indulgent. Frivolous.) 

This is about Molly, he told himself, not his personal weaknesses.

And so, unwilling to continue in that vein, Sherlock prepared to launch into his ironclad reasoning regarding the need for her her prompt cooperation. But before he spoke, he took a moment to observe Molly further. She was exhausted and afraid, that much would be obvious to anyone (even John), but she was also resolute. (Eyes set and focused, jaw clenched). This was not a moment to let his own feelings get the better of him. His mouth opened and closed before any inflammatory words were spoken. Sherlock could feel the weight of this moment and knew his next words could determine the course of any future friendship with Molly Hooper. 

“Both, Molly,” he said quietly. “Both.”

She sighed and moved to turn but before she could take a step, Sherlock continued, his hand in the air as he spoke. “Let me finish.”

“You may not trust my intentions,” he began then. Lord, but he hated how…tentative he sounded. “And that is understandable based on my treatment of you in the past. I have been inconsiderate of your feelings, I know. But you have always helped me a great deal - more than I rightly deserve - and I consider you a friend. I do not wish for you to put yourself in any further danger. I would be quite... _dismayed_ should you come to harm.” Sherlock took a step forward, searching for his next words. He had to make her understand. “It would be remiss of me - as your _friend_ \- not to ask questions of you that will lead to the apprehension of the person responsible for your distress,” he told her. “And you know I am the one person who can accomplish this, so...let me help.” He said the next to a point somewhere on her left shoe. “Please.”

Molly was completely surprised at his openness. Sherlock had just revealed more to her about his personal feelings in two minutes than over the last several years combined. Prior to his absence, Sherlock Holmes would have chided her for being stupid, insulted her for questioning his motives and most likely thrown out a negative comment about her romantic life. She watched him for a moment, expecting a derogatory remark but it didn’t come. Sherlock simply stood where he was, awaiting her answer. Could his ‘death’ truly have changed him? Was she witnessing a kinder, gentler Sherlock Holmes? 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he watched her reaction to his words. Surprise. Confusion. She was studying him, evaluating whether what he’d said was true or a ruse to entice her to stay. He counted to a minute. One minute, thirty seconds. Sufficient time for her to mentally process the information. He had to get to work if he was going to apprehend the bastard responsible and keep Molly Hooper from harm. 

“Enough of this foolishness, now. Put down your bag and let’s get to the bottom of this.”

He turned away from her and made his way back through the doors into the autopsy theater. As the door shut behind him, Molly shook her head and placed her bag back on the chair. 

She did not see the smile he had wisely hidden from her - his ruse had worked, she’d not called his bluff. 

“You certainly have a way with people, Sherlock Holmes.” She muttered to herself. Perhaps kinder and gentler was too much of a stretch. But he _had_ changed. In small ways, certainly, but it was something. The girlish wish to be swept off her feet by Sherlock bloomed in her chest once again and she fought it down. After working so hard to keep her feelings for him in check, she was not about to open herself back up to be hurt once again. 

Sherlock stopped after he entered the room where the defiled corpse lay. The time between Molly’s scream and this moment were filled with unwelcome emotions. Since his ‘death’, Sherlock had plenty of time to think about the people in his life and their importance to him. John and Lestrade were friends. Mrs. Hudson took care of him and he took care of her when it counted. Mycroft was...well, Mycroft. But Molly was different. And different disturbed him. She _was_ a friend. But it wasn’t thoughts of John and Lestrade that came to him in the loneliness of the night or when he’d been concerned he wouldn’t survive a confrontation with one of Moriarty’s men. No, those thoughts had been of Molly, and those thoughts...those feelings (Messy. Complicated.) distracted him. 

For Molly’s sake, Sherlock Holmes couldn’t afford to be distracted. 

He grabbed a pair of examination gloves and fit them over his long fingers as he spoke to the corpse.

“Shall we begin?” 

~oOo~


	3. Standoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously can't thank hobbitsdoitbetter enough for her beta work on this. She's really amazing at punching up what I've written, challenging me to push further and really delve into these characters. Thank you, thank you.
> 
> Thanks to you who have given kudos, comments and bookmarked. I appreciate the love.

~oOo~

Molly sat once again at her computer, entering casenotes. Sherlock had dismissed her from the autopsy after fifteen minutes indicating that he needed to concentrate. (Molly, your presence is distracting. Please go do something useful.) She was too tired to argue with him - not that she wanted to anyway. The adrenaline of the earlier shock had worn off and she was feeling the physical effects of not sleeping well the past month. If she put her head down now, she was fairly sure she'd slip into a coma. Molly finished typing the last few words of the final patient update when Mary Morstan - followed closely by John Watson - bounded through the laboratory door. It had been no more than thirty minutes since Molly called to tell her about the obscene 'love note.'

"Molly...you alright?" Mary leaned over Molly's back, wrapping her arms around Molly's shoulders, their cheeks flush with each other. The normally reserved Molly was still getting used to her best friend's propensity for hugging. Molly appreciated physical contact as much as the next person (well, except Sherlock Holmes) but Mary Morstan embraced people as if it were her sole purpose in life to ensure that someone received a good and proper hug. Molly patted Mary's arm to reassure her she was fine.

"Yes. Okay now, I suppose. Just tired."

Mary gave one last squeeze before letting go and moving to the front of the desk. Mary's brow wrinkled with concern as she surveyed her friend.

"Tired? You're bloody exhausted." Mary turned to John. "Doesn't she look bloody exhausted?"

John walked up next to Mary and, as his fiancee had just done, looked Molly over from head to toe. The poor woman looked about ready to drop. He'd come to know Molly well in the past two years; especially since she and Mary had become such close friends. The woman who sat before him now appeared far from the pleasant, happy person he knew. He certainly didn't want to make her feel any worse by agreeing with Mary's blunt assessment.

"Well...a trifle...tired, I'd say. So, Molly, mind bringing us up to speed here?" John asked; concern evident in his voice.

Molly sighed. "Kitty Riley's exposés made me into enough of a celebrity that I now have my own stalker."

John gritted his teeth and shook his head. That damned woman. She just couldn't let things alone. She was so bloody angry that Moriarty had duped her that her revenge was to dig up any information - truth or no - on Sherlock's friends. Her articles about Molly had been particularly spiteful. Kitty's scandalous trash sold papers, though, so they kept being printed.

"I started receiving things in the mail just after the first article. They were sort of flattering, actually - except for the ones that said I shouldn't be involved with Sherlock, that I was a disgrace to the profession." She sat back and rubbed her eyes. "At first I ignored them. Then the flowers started arriving and I began to get uneasy about all these gifts. But the flowers were especially disturbing. There'd never been a note and no one had seen them delivered - all when I was away from my desk. It felt as though someone was watching me."

"You never told _anyone_?" It was all John could do not to give into his frustration at Sherlock for not intervening sooner. "No one...guessed? And by 'no-one,' I mean that tosser with the flowy black coat and the superiority complex I used to live with."

Molly sighed. "I didn't want to be a bother. I thought it would go away."

Mary clicked her tongue on her teeth with a 'tsk.' "Didn't want to bother _him_ , you mean." Mary was more than annoyed - mostly with Sherlock Holmes - but also with herself. Molly was her best friend yet she'd barely seen her in the last month - evidently just when Molly needed her the most. But Sherlock should have done something. He was at the lab almost every day - he should have seen what was happening. He should have stepped in to help Molly - she helped _him_ when he needed it most. Sherlock should have done the same for _her_.

"Four bouquets in a month? I'm no great detective, but even I can see that's not 'going away', Molly." John's tone was gentle, not accusing.

Molly shrugged. "I realize that now. I was stupid to try and deal with it alone, I know. I just…" Didn't want Sherlock involved. Hated the idea of turning back into a stuttering, simpering hanger on. She'd tried hard to become more independent since he'd left and it hurt to think of him looking at her with pity. "...didn't want to worry anyone." Molly shook her head. "You...you wouldn't understand."

John sighed. "I _do_ understand. You've come into your own these last two years without him and you don't want to go back to the way things were." He'd honestly been glad of Molly's evolution during Sherlock's absence. New outfits (courtesy of shopping trips with Mary) and additional responsibilities at the hospital (teaching, supervising interns), had brought Molly a new level of confidence. She really was quite remarkable. Despite Sherlock's genius, he failed to open his eyes and _observe_ this new Molly Hooper.

Molly's eyes began to glisten, the tears threatening her tenuous composure. She nodded. "I _don't_ want that, I really don't. I _like_ who I am now, and that's the sort of person who takes care of herself. But when I'm around him, that 'old Molly' wants to come back. I find myself wanting to become the little lab rat scurrying to get his coffee and his...damn body parts. It's like… It's like I turn into the invisible woman again, and I don't like it."

Mary took Molly's hand. "I love you, Molls, but that's rubbish. You're not invisible. You're brilliant and funny and damn Sherlock Holmes for being a complete prat. I know why you wouldn't want to go to him. But you're our _friend_. Even if you didn't go to him, you should have come to _me_...to us. It's our job to worry about you. You have to let us take care of you, yeah? So we're going to help. John, call Lestrade."

"No need." Molly pointed in the direction of the other room. "He arrived just before you did. He's in there with Sherlock."

"Right. Well, I'll go see about things then." John patted Molly on the shoulder. "We'll get this sorted, Molly. Promise. Even if it means me giving Sherlock a swift kick in the arse." Molly smiled and wiped her eyes. He kissed Mary on the cheek before disappearing into the autopsy theater.

Crossing her arms, Mary leaned on the desk and stared at Molly. Despite Mary's outgoing nature, she didn't make friends easily. True friends - ones that knew her secrets and flaws, who wouldn't judge her as her family so often did - were few and far between. Molly was the genuine article. A loyal and trusted friend who, right now, needed Mary more than she would admit.

"You're about two seconds from collapsing, aren't you?"

Molly nodded. "I'm tired, Mary. I just want to get some sleep."

"I wish you'd come to me sooner. Damn Sherlock Holmes for making you feel like gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. I would have called Lestrade. Filed a report…"

"Claiming what? Stalking with beautiful flowers? There wasn't a boiled bunny in my flat, Mary. The police aren't going to do anything until I've been…" She didn't want to say the next words. Molly knew from the start that the police wouldn't do anything if she reported 'feeling uneasy'. They wouldn't have done anything until she was actually assaulted. And she certainly hadn't wanted to involve Sherlock. He might have taken it seriously but she didn't want to seem like she was clamoring for attention. Stupid, yes. But what was done was done.

"Don't even say it, Molls. Just don't. No one is going to touch a hair on your brilliant, stubborn head, yeah? You're going to stay with John and me until this is all done."

Molly shook her head tiredly. "I don't want to put you out. You and John are in the middle of planning your wedding, and there's your work...his work…"

"Bollocks. You're my best friend, Molly Hooper. I'll be damned if I send you home alone with some insane stalker waiting to do God-knows-what to you." Fear suddenly replaced the exhaustion on Molly's face and Mary immediately regretted her choice of words. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to make it sound as bad as all that."

"But it is as bad as all that, I suppose. I'm being a stubborn idiot, I know. This is just unreal. This isn't my life, Mary. This is Sherlock's life. Murderers, thieves...he understands them. I don't. I just deal with the science at the end...not the motives. When I started in this work, I made a choice not to think about the killers...the evil of it all. But, now, I could end up in there and it scares me."

Mary stepped forward and embraced Molly again. "No, you won't. We'll see to that."

The moment between friends broke when the autopsy theater door opened and Sherlock's voice boomed through the space.

"I've obtained all the data I need for now. Molly, gather your things."

He strode over to 'his' chair and picked up his coat while Lestrade made his way to Molly. Greg winked, trying his best to lighten the mood.

"Sensitivity of a porcupine, that one. He thinks he might have it cracked, Molly, don't you worry." Greg glanced over his shoulder briefly, then quieted his voice. Molly knew that tone. That was the one Greg used when he didn't want to start a row with Sherlock - but he was using it on her. She didn't see that as a good sign.

"I think it best you stay at Baker Street until this business is over."

A part of her thrilled to the idea of staying in close proximity to Sherlock; being in his home and having him watch over her. Their conversation earlier indicated that he was concerned for her welfare - even if he had no inclination toward her as anything other than a friend. But her pride (stubborn, yes) told her that jumping at this chance would, once again, demonstrate that she would do anything when it came to Sherlock Holmes. No. She wanted to prove that she was stronger than that - to herself...and to Sherlock.

"Greg, I…"

Lestrade raised his hand, trying to put forth his argument before Sherlock stepped in and changed this request to a demand. "John told us you were going to stay with him and Mary, but Sherlock is more available…" He looked from John, then to Mary. "...no offense, of course. He feels it's the most sensible option and I'm inclined to agree."

"Well, none of this is sensible, is it? I appreciate the concern for my safety, I do. But I'd be more...comfortable at John and Mary's. I'm sure I'll be safe there and then I can always figure out getting to and from the hospital."

She rose from her seat and picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. Switching off the light, she took a few steps away from her desk before Sherlock stopped her with his voice.

"You'll stay at Baker Street." Sherlock stood squarely in the middle of the room with his hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was set and Molly could see the determination in his eyes. When he looked this way, negotiation was not an option. So, she wouldn't negotiate.

She moved toward him, relegating John, Mary and Lestrade to witness Sherlock on the receiving end of a stronger, more confident Molly Hooper.

"No, Sherlock, I won't."

Sherlock remained stock still. "Molly don't be…." (Stupid. Don't say it. Not good. Definitely not good.) "...ridiculous. You know it's the only option. With the data I've obtained, I should manage to finish this case overnight. You can take the spare room." He held Molly's gaze (had she always had such unusual eyes?) in order to drive home the importance of his next words.

"Besides, I should be the one to guard you." It was the truth - he felt utterly protective of the diminutive woman standing before him. He was intent on keeping Molly Hooper safe. Safe and sound and, and…. his. His, even if he didn't know what to do with her. "It was, after all, publicity surrounding your assistance in my disappearance that let to this person's fascination with you," he continued. She said nothing. "So, as I am somewhat responsible for this situation, I should ensure your safety."

Disappointment took hold in Molly's chest. He'd said he wanted to protect her and, even if only for a moment, the look in his eyes was fierce and passionate. But as quickly as one would flip a switch, the mask descended back over his face. He was Sherlock again - the brilliant detective who always had to be right. She was, as always, nothing but an… obligation to him. He would never change. Never be more to her than someone who needed her for his cases. He'd said he considered her a friend and maybe that could be good enough. But it didn't lessen the sting.

"No, Sherlock. I don't need you to sweep in and play the hero right now." She paused for a moment. "I appreciate that you feel responsible, but I'm not going to stay at your flat. John and Mary's is perfectly safe - at least for tonight. If you haven't solved the case tomorrow then I'll consider moving to Baker Street. But not tonight. Tonight I need to be with my friends."

With that, Molly turned on her heel and left the laboratory. Mary stood for a moment, glanced at John and followed her friend out the door. The three men remained silent for several moments in the aftermath of Molly's declaration. Lestrade was the first to speak up.

"Well, I'll follow them out and wait until you get there, John." He tipped his head and left John alone with a stunned consulting detective.

John watched his friend. Sherlock was visibly struck from Molly's words. His eyes darted about and the lines in his forehead grew more pronounced as he replayed the interchange in his head. John knew something was happening in that brain of his - he just hoped it was his best friend finally coming to his senses.

Sherlock turned around and slammed his hands against the counter top.

"I'm not a hero. I never intended to be a hero." ( _Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._ ) "I simply want to _help_ her, doesn't she bloody _realize_ that?" He righted himself and spun around, his hands gesticulated wildly; a perverse conduction of his own internal orchestra. "This happened because of _me_. Because some psychopath saw Molly in an article about how she was involved with _me_. I'm responsible, I have to fix this. To take care of her until this is done."

John had seen his best friend angry before. Anger on Sherlock Holmes hung like a dark cloud over his face - he simmered, his jaw clenched, he calculated. This was more than anger - it was frustration, hurt...terror. For all of Sherlock's protestations against emotions ( _Your heart should never rule your head, John._ ), it seemed that the man in front of him was experiencing a full range of them - including, God help them all... love?

It hit John. He knew what he had to say now. "Just until then?"

"What?" Sherlock spun around and fixed John with those piercing eyes.

"You said you want to take care of her until this is done. After that, you two will go back to Sherlock, the consulting detective and Molly Hooper, pathologist? Or are you finally getting it in your overworked skull that she means more to you than just an inroad for obtaining body parts?"

John's accusation unsettled him. Sherlock detested being the one observed. Irene Adler. Moriarty. They saw through Sherlock Holmes, _Consulting Detective_ and it was decidedly unnerving. He wanted to be the one in control yet this entire evening demonstrated that there were some things even he could not control. Emotions he could not master would destroy him - could destroy Molly.

That could not happen. John was absolutely correct. Molly... _his_ Molly...was more than a scientific collaborator to him. She was important. She _mattered_.

"John, Molly Hooper is important. She is a friend.…"

"Oh shut it, Sherlock. She isn't just a friend and you damn well know it." John stepped forward and glared at him. "You've been different since you came back from the dead, you know. You're still an arse - that's one thing that will never change. But when you stood up on that rooftop and made the choice to jump - you got it. You understood what it meant to have people to love and protect. You disappeared for two years to bring down a network that could harm one of your friends. And as much as you are loathe to admit, you towering git, you care about Molly. Not just as a doctor or friend...as a _woman_. You're too damn stubborn to say anything, but even Mary and I can see it."

John put his hands in his jacket pockets and continued. "You know bloody well how she's always felt about you, Sherlock. She helped you stage your death without a second thought yet you went two years without contacting her. You've been back for three months yet you've all but ignored her. She _deserves_ more, Sherlock, and she knows it. Molly's spent the time without you becoming more confident and independent - she's damn good at it too."

He paused for a moment to choose his next words. He didn't want to betray Molly's confidence, but Sherlock needed something akin to a slap on those rigid cheekbones to bring him to his senses. "She's been so wound up because of you sitting in that chair, treating her like she's a part of the scenery that she's neglected to to confide in you...the _one_ person who could help her," he tells him. "Two years ago, she would have told you everything, But she doesn't trust you anymore, Sherlock- And trust is a fragile thing for a woman like her. She doesn't want to be hurt anymore, and I can't rightly blame her. So how's about you give her a reason not to expect the worst of you, eh, Spock? Think you can work on that?"

And the good doctor stepped away, his point made.

John watched Sherlock process the information he'd been given. He knew Sherlock became overwhelmed when emotions were present and, right now, Sherlock Holmes looked like he was fighting a tidal wave. Good. Maybe something he said would shift that pretentious brain of his into gear. Or even the under-used, but equally important, bits of him that might be of interest to Molly Hooper. He gave his friend a moment, allowing him to process things a little, and then crossed the short distance to stand next to Sherlock. Clapped him on the shoulder and smiled lopsidedly to take the sting out of his words. "I'll watch out for her, alright? You know I can protect her. But if you let things go any longer without telling her and something happens...you'll never forgive yourself, mate."

He turned and began walking out of the laboratory, leaving Sherlock alone to sort out what needed to be done.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the lab, his thoughts whirling. The full realization that his feelings for Molly might lean more toward affection than friendship shifted his internal balance. He'd never had to battle against what he thought and what he felt - feelings were a disadvantage. But the knowledge that she was in danger caused his brain to flood with unwanted levels of emotion. The chemistry of feeling could be so bloody _unhelpful_ at times. Sherlock paced back and forth while images of Molly's injured body flashed through his mind. Knowing someone wanted to hurt her caused fierce anger to bloom in his chest. The idea of her absence from his life agitated him. He relied on Molly. Trusted her. If she were hurt, kidnapped, killed...stop. _Stop_. Following that train of thought would be dangerous for him and for her. He needed to remain focused on the task at hand. Sherlock took a deep breath, centering himself and moving those emotions back to their place in his mind. Only after identifying Molly's stalker would he entertain the examination of his feelings for Molly Hooper. Doing so now would only prove detrimental to the investigation.

No one would harm Molly. Sherlock would see to that.

~oOo~


	4. The Molly Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to my super-amazing-fantastic beta, hobbitsdoitbetter.

~oOo~

Sherlock Holmes was beyond frustrated. It was nine o'clock in the morning (o _ver twelve hours, idiot_ ) and he still had no definitive answer on the identity of Molly's stalker. He'd narrowed down the possibilities ( _eight_ ), but he didn't have a _name_. The unnamed person ( _most definitely not for long, he would see to that_ ) was out there. Watching her. Waiting for another opportunity to deliver either a twisted message of his devotion or...worse. It was the 'worse', he didn't want to think about. It was the _possibility_ of 'worse' that caused anger and anxiety to wind their way through his chest like a spider's web - growing and multiplying until he was unable to think clearly.

And if he couldn't think clearly he was painfully aware that he was of no use to Molly at all.

He threw himself down on the couch at that and steepled his fingers over his mouth. These emotions toward Molly weren't altogether surprising ( _although damn inconvenient_ ). He'd had them before. During his absence, he'd been in the process of interrogating yet another key individual in Moriarty's network. The brute had broached the subject of Sherlock's disappearance and whether that 'mousey little bitch at St. Bart's' played a hand in its execution. The man had laughed and winked, saying that she wasn't much to look at but he wouldn't need to see her face for what he had planned. Sherlock had intended to get the information he needed quickly and move on, but the ugly bastard's twisted smile ( _Don't even think about touching her_ ) made Sherlock reevaluate his plan. Instead of the hour (or less) it normally took to obtain the necessary specifics, Sherlock took the afternoon. By the time the man begged for a quick death, Sherlock had been satisfied: The subject's death had insured Molly would be safe.

Sherlock would be satisfied again once he identified this faceless individual ( _some form of mild torture wouldn't be unwarranted in this case either_ ) and ensured Molly's safety. She would be safe and sound and, and...his. His, even if he still didn't quite know what to do with her. He had some ideas, of course. Ideas that came to him late in the night when he was alone and wondering what she might be doing at the same moment. Thoughts of Molly next to him, smiling in that shy, self-conscious way, caused his chest to tighten with the weight of his... yearning? Hunger? For her. And when he started thinking about those things, he often found himself unable to think of anything else.

He longed for her in a way that made him understand why John devoted so much time to Mary. When he was away from Molly, the time until he saw her again seemed oddly pointless. He even sometimes found himself simply daydreaming ( _not often, mind you_ ) about strolling through the city with Molly, content in the comfort of each others presence. Not doing anything… amorous, just happy being together. It was not entirely different from the way they worked together in companionable silence in the lab: They did make a good team. Maybe that was the foundation of all good relationships, he mused. At the thought his hands dropped to his lap. Was that what was developing between Molly and him? A relationship? Sherlock shifted in his seat - slightly uncomfortable with the word. No, not with the word. With its connotations in this context. Yet, the hallmarks of a pair bond were there; friendship, common interests, amenability to physical contact. Mutual physical attraction, even. Sherlock sat for a moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head from side to side.

"Focus on the case, Holmes." He scolded himself quietly.

He could amuse himself with notions of liaison and courtship once he'd solved things.

If, of course, Molly proved amenable, considering how untrustworthy she currently found him.

And with that in mind, Sherlock bounded up from the couch, grabbed his belstaff and scarf from the chair and made his way out of the flat. Those ideas about Molly Hooper would do nothing for either of them if he couldn't protect her by finding out who intended to cause her harm. He needed to put those distracting feelings away where they belonged in order to concentrate on the job at hand. Only after he found the culprit would Sherlock contemplate what needed to be done about The Molly Question.

A cab pulled up to the curb almost immediately. Sherlock climbed in the back seat and began revising theories about the stalker in his head. Maybe five minutes passed before the text alert on his phone chimed.

_Dr. Hooper security detail on their way. MH_

On their way _now_? He'd asked Mycroft to ensure a guard on Molly at all times and only _now_ does he find it necessary to inform him that she'd been unattended all night?

"Dammit, Mycroft. One simple bloody instruction and you manage to cock it up." Sherlock muttered, punching in his reply.

_Unacceptable. You told me she would have someone last night. SH_

Sherlock's previous frustration was giving way to a mounting anger. If Molly was in any way compromised due to his brother's lack of follow-through, the promises he'd made to their mother about getting along with Mycroft for her sake would be broken - along with his nose. The text alert drew his attention back to the phone.

_Police guard overnight. Private security beginning today. Your Watson should be with her now. Try not to overreact, little brother. Your doctor will be looked after. Little Miss Muffet's curds and whey are in no danger. MH_

Sherlock gripped his phone harder, typing out his response. "If a single curd is out of place, as you put it, I'll show you overreaction, you arrogant sod." He bit the words out through clenched teeth, glowering as he texted a response.

_Obviously she'll be looked after - I'll see to it personally since you are utterly incompetent. SH_

Sherlock exited his texting with Mycroft before the latter could offer any more evidence of his ineptitude and pulled up John's contact information. He pressed the screen on his phone and listened as the call connected and rang...and rang. "Pick up the phone, John," he whispered to himself.

Just before Sherlock was sure he would hear the familiar beginnings of John Watson's voice mail message, his friend's voice came over the speaker.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"John, I assume Molly is with you?"

"Well, no. I dropped her at St. Bart's around seven this morning."

Two hours. Two hours she'd been alone. Unattended. Unprotected.

"Why in the _hell_ would you think to let her out of your sight, John? She needs protection, dammit and I trusted _you_ for the job."

"Sherlock, she's…"

He hung up on John and found Molly's number next. John could call him a wanker later. With each ring, he gritted his teeth tighter. Sherlock swore under his breath at the sound of her voice mail message. He looked out the window and saw that the cab was making the turn toward St. Bart's. The cab barely slowed before Sherlock threw some notes at the cab driver and flung open the door, sprinting toward the entrance. As he wound through the hallways - nearly colliding with one doctor and an orderly - he felt as if he were back on the hospital rooftop; the adrenaline and fear coursing through his body as quickly as any poison. Moriarty's game had been perfectly crafted to exact the ultimate revenge on Sherlock - threatening those closest to him worked because Sherlock would do anything for his friends ( _for Molly_ ). The players may have changed in this game, but the stakes remained the same.

Someone for whom he cared deeply was in danger and he had to make sure she didn't lose.

Sherlock marched into the lab, his eyes frantically searching for her brown hair. Nothing. He marched into the autopsy theater. Nothing. Panic, real panic, was beginning to bloom in his chest and he stamped it down. Sherlock Holmes resolutely did not panic. Deep breath in. Out. Repeat. Repeat. REPEAT. _Focus, Holmes._ He entered the lab again and surveyed the room. Bag on the floor. Computer on. Coat draped over the chair. She was here somewhere. He shook off the fleeting thought that Molly might not be in the hospital. John's warning from the previous night echoed through his head. What if she'd been taken from him - removed from his life before…before he figured out what he wanted to do with her? What if she was...? But he pushed that thought down. His vision began to blur with the increase in his blood pressure. Controlling his breathing was doing nothing: The panic he was trying to desperately to tamp down on threatened to overwhelm him.

The sound of the door caused him to spin around, but the breath caught in his throat as the figure coming through the door turned out to be Mike Stamford.

"Where is Molly?" Sherlock's voice was more little more than a bark.

The man looked completely unruffled. _Idiot_. "Pathology class today, I believe."

Class. She was teaching a class. "What room?"

"Education Centre. Main room, I think." Mike glanced at the clock on the wall. "Should have been over at least twenty minutes ago. What's..."

Stamford's question faded into the background as he flew past Molly's boss ( _down to seven possible suspects now_ ) and followed the hallway signs to where Molly should be. His breathing evening out now that he had somewhere to look, something to _do._ He began looking into the windows and each time he failed to see Molly, that dreaded panic loomed in the back of his mind - waiting to coil around his heart again and squeeze. Finally, in the last window, he saw Molly Hooper.

The momentary relief he felt was replaced by blinding rage at the sight of a man in a white coat holding his Molly by the throat.

He slammed open the door and sprinted to where the two stood. Molly's eyes grew wide as he approached. He was vaguely aware of Molly calling his name as Sherlock grabbed the stranger's arm, twisted it behind the man's back and slammed him against the wall.

Sherlock's lips hovered just over the man's ear. "You will _never_ touch her again."

He was a hairs breadth away from breaking the man's arm when Molly's frantic voice cut through the fog of rage. "Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!"

She was pulling at him now, grabbing at his arms in an attempt to break the two men apart. Sherlock turned his head down to look at her and saw the confusion and anger evident on her face.

"Sherlock, he's a _medical student_! He wasn't hurting me! Let him go!"

It took a moment for her words to register in his head. When the true picture of what had transpired between Molly and the young man crystallized in his mind, his stomach twisted as much from the mistake he'd made but from the knowledge that her stalker was still unapprehended. Sherlock stepped back quickly, dropping the man's arms as he moved.

Molly stepped forward and placed her hand on the stranger's back.

"William...Will...are you alright? I'm so sorry, it was a complete misunderstanding."

Molly was soothing him. _Soothing the blighter that had just had his hands all over her._ She patted his arm as the medical student turned around, a terrified look on his face. He regarded Sherlock a moment, then bolted from the room, grabbing his notebook as he left, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone in the tension filled classroom.

Sherlock stood still, the adrenaline still hot and fresh in his system. His hands clenched inside his coat pockets as he futilely tried to center himself.

Molly turned on him, her arms crossed and jaw set. "What the _hell_ was that, Sherlock?"

His fear for her was as raw as an open wound. The mental images of Molly Hooper's lifeless body had flashed through his mind countless times the previous night. His focus on her protection had driven him even during his disappearance. Watching the scenario of Molly in danger play out in front of him - even if it wasn't real - unsettled Sherlock to his very core.

"He had his hands around your _throat_ , Molly."

"He's a _medical student_ that I was helping after class! I was demonstrating wound patterns, for god's sake!"

"I couldn't know that, could I? You've been _threatened_ , Molly. I arrive here to find you gone from the lab and see…" He pulled out his hands and gestured pointedly to where she and the student had been standing. "... _that_. What do you imagine I would infer?"

Molly opened her mouth to reply but closed it again immediately. She regarded him for a moment, searching his eyes with her own. Her anger faded to frustration and she blew out a sharp breath as one hand went to her hip and the other pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I would imagine you inferred some psychotic stalker was choking me."

"Quite right." He huffed.

"Well, then… Thank you." She said it to her shoes. "You just gave me a fright, is all."

In that instant, Sherlock felt his body shift forward. He wanted to go to her. Cross the short distance between them and wrap her in his arms to verify that she was alright. To know that she was safe here with him. To show that she needn't be frightened of _him._ He wanted to feel the warmth of her against his chest, bury his face in her hair and stand together until his heart ceased its frantic rhythm.

But he remained rooted in the same spot, watching Molly Hooper go to the desk and gather her things. She turned back to him, the corner of her mouth moving upward in a shy smile.

"I always thought my knight would wear armor - not a belstaff coat and a scarf."

"Don't be daft, Hooper. Armor is too restrictive."

Her soft laugh loosened the last tenuous strand of his anger and he felt himself relax slightly. He was still tense - a boogeyman planned to leap from the shadows to snatch Molly away from him. He would not allow her to be placed at risk again.

"Back to the lab, then?" Molly's large brown eyes ( _she still looked tired_ ) sought his - A silent truce was being offered.

He nodded in response. She moved in front of him and his hand automatically went to the small of her back. _Instinctual. Protective._ Sherlock told himself that after the stress of believing Molly to be in danger, this small gesture reassured him of her safety. It didn't speak to other wants, or needs, or desires: He wouldn't let it. They walked out of the room and turned down the hallway before he allowed his arm to drop back to his side.

It occurred to him that The Molly Question may need to be addressed sooner than he had planned.

Because though his arm had left her, he swore he still felt the impression of her against his skin.

~oOo~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for reading!


	5. New Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the posting delay - I normally like to have a chapter every week or so. Life has been crazy busy and writer's block hit as well. Hopefully, we're all past that! Thank you for your comments and kudos!
> 
> Endless and abundant thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her beta and amazing encouragement. This would not be where it was without her.

~oOo~

By the time Molly and Sherlock returned to the lab, a very intense looking man with a shaved head and an expensive suit stood sentry in the hallway outside. As the two approached, he regarded them from head to toe, nodded, then resumed his thorough examination of the wall in front of him. Sherlock led Molly through the door, his hand once again finding a place at the small of her back as he walked behind her. Molly shuddered slightly at the pressure of his palm on her body. She knew physical contact was not Sherlock Holmes' natural instinct yet in the last several minutes he'd made a point to put his hand on her twice. Maybe it was a silly, insignificant thing. A simple gesture of one friend to another. The hope (however distant it might be) that he might harbor some sort of affection for her blossomed within her chest, however: As they entered the room, she regarded him more closely as he moved past her and made his way to his workspace.

Two years ago, she would have readily dismissed his uncharacteristic behavior as one of a protective friend. She'd believed - even then - that the two of them were more than mere colleagues. Obviously, her feelings for Sherlock had been one sided, but she knew that his trust in her would only be given if he considered her worthy. It had been a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. His reaction to William, however, was not one she'd expect from a friend. She didn't imagine that a _friend_ would react so violently in the same situation. Molly had observed Sherlock Holmes angry before, but never so...unhinged. Normally, Molly would attribute his reaction to stress - but the flush of his face and set of his jaw as Sherlock's piercing stare followed William from the room told her that he was far more unsettled than even Sherlock would admit. Sherlock Holmes had been frightened. _For her_.

"Molly. You're staring."

Sherlock peered at her through squinted eyes, his brow raised and head tilted to the side. For just a moment, Molly felt herself begin to stammer out a response. Part of her desperately wanted to scurry off to her desk or the autopsy theater, not wanting to embarrass herself further. But she was Strong Molly. The same Molly who stood up to him at the Christmas party after his notorious humiliation of her. The Molly who helped orchestrate his death. The Molly who taught interns how not to throw up when looking at a dead body. The Molly who was witty and nice and deserved to be treated with respect. The Molly who didn't shrink away from the Great and Powerful (stubborn, self-important, self-absorbed, stupidly gorgeous and annoying) Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes. Yes I am." She smiled gently and felt a deep satisfaction at seeing a blush redden Sherlock's cheeks. Whether it was embarrassment or annoyance, it didn't quite matter to her - Sherlock Holmes blushed. Because of what she'd said. Molly hadn't felt so thrilled since he'd kissed her on the cheek over two years ago.

He looked down at his papers. Then up at Molly, then down at his papers again before muttering under his breath. "Well, stop it. I'm working here."

She snorted. "If my attention was a distraction, you'd never get anything done-"

He cocked an eyebrow at her, trying for his aristocratic, priggish best, but it fell short. And by the looks of things, he knew it. "I'll get plenty done," he muttered. "Just without distractions. Which you are being. Now stop fishing for compliments."

This statement was issued to his papers, but it came with the ghost of a smile.

She turned away from him and walked to her desk. The Strong Molly inside her rejoiced at looking him in the eye and making Sherlock feel _something -_ whatever that might be. It had felt almost like… Almost like he was flirting with her. For the next thirty minutes, Molly reviewed her new cases and surreptitiously watched Sherlock as he examined whatever data he'd compiled on her stalker. She'd done so often since his return but today Molly really noticed the subtle physical changes that had taken place during his absence. His once lean frame had bulked up just enough for his long sleeved shirt to tighten a bit more strenuously over the hard muscle. Sherlock's complexion had darkened and there were more pronounced circles under his eyes. He was tired. Stressed. She could take the blame for some of that pressure, she knew. It was enough to 'return from the dead', now he had to deal with her problems as well.

She stood, stretched her back and began walking toward the lab. Molly still felt a sense of violation knowing that someone had snuck in here while she was gone - but she had a job to do and Strong Molly wouldn't be pushed out of doing what she did best.

"Molly."

Her hand rested on the door as she turned her body to face him. She was struck by the seriousness in his face.

"Yes?"

"I am going to work here for another hour then I must go to the security office to review any video footage they may have. You will not leave this laboratory without contacting me first. Is that understood?"

"Sherlock, there is a very large bloke outside that door that should be perfectly capable of…"

"Molly, this isn't up for discussion or debate." He snapped. "My word in this matter is absolute. You will _not_ leave this laboratory without me. Is. That. Clear?"

He never blinked. Never looked away from her. This moment wasn't a game to him. Maybe in the beginning her situation may have been just another case - something to occupy his boredom - but something had changed and she could see it in his resolute stare, the clench of his jaw and the tight line of his lips as he awaited her answer.

"Yes. It's clear, Sherlock. I won't go anywhere without you." _Ever_. She wished she could add without delving into that awkward pool of feelings and emotions that caused Sherlock Holmes immense displeasure. She was content enough knowing that, even in a limited and platonic capacity, Sherlock did care about her welfare. Even if she was just his pathologist, Molly's safety was important to him.

Molly held his gaze for a moment longer before she turned and entered the place that usually gave her so much focus and peace. Not today. Today her focus was back on Sherlock Holmes and today, Molly Hooper counted. Even if it was still getting her nowhere.

_Well, bugger_ , she thought.

~oOo~

Two hours after he'd left Molly in the lab guarded by what appeared to be a Neanderthal in a suit, Sherlock Holmes sat alone in the cramped security office that reeked of stale coffee and body odor. Two hours. He ground his teeth and rubbed his long fingers over his eyes. Examining video footage shouldn't have taken this long. He was frustratingly distracted by completely nonproductive emotions regarding Molly. Anger at seeing another man appearing to harm her. Fear that she could be taken from him. Desire to pin her against a wall and snog her senseless.

Since his return to the 'living', Sherlock had entertained the idea of informing Molly Hooper that he might be amenable to exploring a more than professional relationship. It had been obvious to him during his absence that he'd created an emotional attachment to the doctor. But it hadn't been until the moment he saw William the Medical Student with his hands around her throat did Sherlock truly understand that Molly Hooper counted more than almost anyone else in his life. John was his best friend (the term still sounded childish to his ears) and Sherlock would do anything for the man (even stand up in a tuxedo and spout drivel at his wedding reception). But if John and Molly were tied up in the same room with guns pointed at their heads and Sherlock had to choose between them...He would choose Molly, if only because he knew John would understand.

Because Molly had risked her career to help him die. Molly had seen through Sherlock's guise of strength when John couldn't. ( _You look sad. When you think he can't see you.)_ Molly had called him a selfish bastard when he deserved it. Molly had smiled at him from across the room and brought him tea before he even realized he wanted some. She was… she was His Molly.

And she mattered.

Sherlock looked briefly to the hand that had pressed against her back and swore he could still feel the heat of her on his fingertips. Maybe it _was_ time - case or no - to discuss the situation with her. It wasn't like his feelings could be _more_ counter-productive than they were already being, now was it?

Resolved, Sherlock stood up to leave the confines of the office and return to finish his notes. Despite the embarrassingly long time he'd taken to go over the video, Sherlock had come to several solid conclusions regarding the identities of the Body Slasher and the Flower Deliverer. Security footage in the hospital was lax (virtually nonexistent in the hallway of the pathology lab - that needed to be remedied immediately), but he'd been able to piece together a scenario which pointed to two separate individuals involved. He doubted they'd worked together, but one more hour should provide him with more than enough time to yield enough concrete data to move forward with reasonable surety.

And, when he discovered the identities of the perpetrators and confronted them about their involvement, he would consider demonstrating his immense displeasure at the distress they'd caused his pathologist. Demonstrating it slowly and deliberately, possibly with many pointy props from the medieval period.

As he turned the corner of the hallway (recently disinfected), the same hulking guard stood immobile in front of the door. At least the poor sod had an earpiece to listen to sporting events so as not to be entirely bored out of his thick, stubbly cranium. The man turned to Sherlock, nodded and resumed his position.

Sherlock pushed open the door and, for the second time that day, was met with a sight that caused his sense of equilibrium to shift sideways.

Molly and a tall, sturdily built man stood by her desk - laughing. Sherlock clenched his fists and squared his shoulders as he watched their interaction. Molly's hand covered her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a snort ( _Did he ever make her laugh like that?_ ) as her eyes closed and shoulders heaved up and down. The man crossed his arms (pleased with himself) and smiled at Molly's obvious enjoyment.

Sherlock wanted very much to punch the grin off the bastard's face.

"I appear to have missed the jest." _Calm and focused, Sherlock. You don't need another repeat of your earlier performance._

The man turned around, smiled (slight hesitation - intimidated and annoyed at the interruption.)

Molly's eyes flew open and her laughter stopped immediately. "Oh...Sherlock. This…" She stammered. Uncomfortable. Nervous. "...this is Paul Lewis. He works in our public relations department. He's a...friend."

Sherlock ran the name through his mental checklists but came up empty. Molly had never mentioned Paul Lewis before. But there had been times when she'd left the lab early to go out with what she casually referred to as a 'work thing'. He hadn't noticed. Hadn't picked up on the fact that she might be going on a date. _Idiot._ Of course she wouldn't mention any sort of date with a work associate to him - not after the Jim from IT disaster. But...this smug blighter? This is someone Molly would have chosen?

Yes. She chose him because Paul Lewis was tall, lanky, relatively handsome (if you liked that type) with brown hair and dimples. Dimples. _Really, now_. Apparently, Molly had stopped just short of dating his doppelganger.

Oh, it was time for a talk, all right.

Paul the Imitator held out his hand and he stepped toward Sherlock. (Posturing for Molly's benefit.)

"Sherlock Holmes - pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock regarded his hand and after a brief pause, shook the man's hand briefly. "Funny, she hasn't mentioned you."

"Sherlock, please don't be rude. I don't mention all of my friends to you." Molly's annoyance was palpable. She sat in her chair staring at him - expecting him to play nice with some idiot who didn't realize that Molly Hooper was...well... _his_.

Sherlock shrugged and walked to his workspace. "Rude is not my intention, Molly. I'm simply stating a fact. But, fair enough, I am not your keeper - you see whom you wish." He threw himself down into his chair and regarded Paul Lewis once more; the observations shooting furiously through his brain. Conclusion: Narcissistic, borderline obsessive compulsive and probable...no...definite philanderer.

"However, this isn't the time for a social visit. If you don't mind, Mr. Lewis, Molly and I are finishing an investigation." He waved his hand dismissively. "Do be so kind as to remove yourself so that we may continue."

He watched as Paul turned back towards Molly who smiled apologetically. "I apologize for Sherlock, when he's working on a case…"

"No, don't worry. I'm sure whatever has his attention is important." Paul stepped forward and took Molly's hand in his own - Sherlock gritted his teeth. "We still on for dinner tonight?"

Sherlock attempted not to stare openly, but was able to tilt his head enough to capture Molly's reaction. Surprise first, followed quickly by embarrassment (cheeks flushed, eyes cast downward - flattered) and a barely noticeable glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Oh, that's sweet of you, Paul. Very. But, I'm backlogged on my cases right now and…"

"No need to explain. Some other time." Paul the Charmer lifted Molly's hand and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes and trained his attention back to his computer. If Paul the Idiot didn't make his way out of the lab in precisely ten seconds, Sherlock would be far more than rude.

Paul stepped backwards and turned toward the door. "Hope you get your man, Mr. Holmes." He threw the comment over his shoulder and, instantly, the security image of a tall, lanky man entering the back entrance with a large box flashed through his mind. It was him.

" _You_ sent Molly the flowers."

Lewis stopped in his tracks - one hand on the door handle. His head raised up and he turned around, smiling in a way that would charm others but radiated falsity to Sherlock. "Yes, I did."

Molly straightened in her chair, brow furrowed in shock and confusion.

Paul squared his shoulders and stared at Sherlock. It was a challenge. Unspoken, but obvious from his body language.

"Do tell us, Paul Lewis, why would you send Molly Hooper anonymous flowers?"

"Molly works herself too hard. When you returned, she had to deal with unwanted attention from the press on top of everything else. I wanted to show her that someone cared for her. I thought she deserved a nice surprise."

Sherlock rose slowly from his chair. "That's lovely. Truly. It's also a load of shite. What's the real reason?" He could feel the anger blooming in his chest again and he stamped it down with the clenching of his fists behind his back.

"That _is_ the reason. Molly is a beautiful, sweet person who I happen to like very much. She deserves nice things and I wanted to cheer her up." Paul moved forward and Sherlock saw the contempt fall over his face. "Besides, someone should see to Molly's needs and I think I'm perfect for the position."

Sherlock marched two steps toward Paul the Arrogant Sod and leaned toward him, hands still grasped together - better that than surrounding this moron's throat.

"I know _precisely_ what Molly needs and it certainly isn't a second rate Casanova who dyes his hair and undergoes weekly facials."

A grimace spread over Paul's previously calm face. The crack in the facade was beginning to show.

"You arrogant tosser." He pointed his finger at Sherlock - it was all Sherlock could do not to grab and twist the bony digit. "She was fine before you came back. But now she's being dragged through the mud by the press and hounded by fans of yours who think she's your lab whore. She deserves better."

Sherlock observed Molly's flinch at Paul's words. Her eyes cast downward again and the crease between her brows drew close. Feelings hurt. Embarrassed. _If the designation "lab whore," were being applied to her then he wasn't surprised._ The last tenuous thread of his restraint broke as he watched her - God knows he'd been the one to inflict the pain before ( _selfish arsehole_ ) - but watching her heart broken by someone else was the flint that lit the spark of his anger.

His baritone voice resonated through the small space - low and quiet yet brimming with venom.

"I'll tell you precisely what Molly Hooper deserves. She deserves someone to watch her back every moment. To ensure that when bad things happen, that someone will go to hell and back to ensure she is safe." Sherlock took another step and the two men were now eye to eye.

"You, Paul Lewis, are not that man. You are a man who pretends to be noble but who would willfully terrorize Molly with anonymous flowers. Flowers that she thought were from one of those obsessed fans who might hurt her." Understanding of his mistake descended over Paul's face.

"But...I thought she would like them...I didn't realize…" He stammered.

"Of course you didn't _realize_ , Paul Lewis, because you were simply trying to get your leg over. Or, in layman's terms, you are a self absorbed prat. You are a man who wants to be a hero to for the sake of glory and admiration: If Molly were truly in danger, you would be the first to run and hide, rather than ruin your manicure or damage your expensive suit."

Sherlock could feel the next words coming but, for the first time, didn't care how much those words would expose him to Molly.

"I, on the other hand, would recognize no limits, if it meant keeping Molly Hooper safe. For two years I worked to put down a criminal network that might harm the people I care about. For two years I stank of secrets and shadows, because that was what it took to take care of my friends. So, if you think I'm going to stand idly by while you attempt to mistreat my pathologist, you've got another fucking thing coming."

He heard Molly's sharp intake of breath but didn't allow his eyes to leave Lewis's face. His mask was fully gone now - the swagger and bravado evaporated like fog on a sunny day.

"I'm...sorry Molly. I didn't think…" Paul took two steps backward then turned and exited the room without another word.

Sherlock stood still - his eyes trained on the door. _Speak to her, coward_. _At least make sure you haven't completely scared the knickers off her, or that she's not planning on throwing you off St. Bart's roof again_. He shifted his feet and his body angled towards hers. He found the courage to look at her face and for the third time that morning, Sherlock Holmes was caught completely off guard.

Molly Hooper burst out laughing.

~oOo~


	6. That Little Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished Series 3 this weekend. So, if you've been reading and wondering "Why isn't she referencing anything in the show?", that's why. Hope you'll still enjoy the ride.
> 
> As always, thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her spectacular support, beta work and all around awesomeness.
> 
> Thanks to you who are reading, commenting and giving kudos. It sincerely means a lot.

~oOo~

Molly Hooper was laughing. Whether it was at him or the situation, he wasn't entirely clear - but she was definitely having a good and proper howl. He ran over the last few minutes in his head - not entirely certain anything he'd said would elicit such a response. He'd… he'd simply stated matters as he saw them, hadn't he? He hadn't…he didn't …he felt a bit flustered, not knowing what he had done that would cause _this,_ and he certainly didn't know how to deal with being flustered, of all things.

"Molly, what, may I ask, is so amusing?" he asked truculently.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she regarded his confused reaction. The corners of Molly's eyes crinkled with a smile as her deep brown eyes found his. A strand of hair had fallen down across the side of her face and she reached up to fix it, the hand which had been at her mouth hooking it behind her ear. The thought came, unbidden, as it had so often of late: She really was quite fetching when she was like this. When she was _his_ Molly.

He had to fight back a wince of consternation, not entirely used to thinking such things. About...about feelings and attractions and whatnot.

Although, he mused, if he's going to think them, he supposes her the best person to think them about.

"Sorry...I'm sorry," she said. "It's just...what you said and he's been so annoying since we went out. I've never seen him so flustered before and I thought it was brilliant that you put him in his place and then you said that I...I was _your_ pathologist. That you would keep me safe no matter what and I just...it...well, it struck me as all a bit overwhelming and I suppose I lost it a bit."

She straightened her face with an effort - she'd enjoyed that laugh at his expense, Sherlock thought. And then she crossed her arms and looked up at him questioningly. Her gaze seemed to bore into his for a moment, then slide away, and it occurred to Sherlock that she was steeling herself for something.

Sherlock was not entirely sure he wanted to discover what.

"Did you...did you mean it?" she asked, then, her voice quiet. "I mean, that I was…that you would. You know. What you said."

Molly stood before him with the same vulnerability as when he'd tongue lashed her in front of their friends at his Christmas party. ( _God, he was an idiot._ ) Her emotions were an open book (nervousness, embarrassment, hope) as she anticipated his next words. Sherlock understood that he could either lay himself bare before Molly Hooper and reveal these messy, complicated emotions - or completely chicken out and lose this chance for good. John's warning from the previous day echoed through his mind ( _but if you let things go any longer without telling her and something happens...you'll never forgive yourself, mate._ ) and he knew that the time had come for Sherlock Holmes to deal with these messy, complicated _feelings_.

He cleared his throat and began. "I have always believed it to be true that caring about others was not an advantage. It was a philosophy I lived by and thought that it served me well. And it did, for the most part. However, it became evident during my associations with those closest to me that friendship and caring were more important than I previously believed." He remained where he stood - almost afraid that should he move, afraid whatever bravery he had found would desert him should he break the moment. That Molly was staring at him with those wide, brown eyes of hers helped not one bit. "During my absence, I had ample opportunity to reflect on my life and the people in it," he continued, after a brief pause. "I told you that you counted, Molly, and you do. Very much. More than I have been ready to admit until now."

Molly's eyes grew wide. Hopeful. Radiant. But beneath that he could see the old wariness, the memory- not consciously recalled- that he had often cost her pain. He hated it, wanted to make it go away.

He could only hope that the next part of his speech would.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake," he said. "Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person who mattered the most. I am not accustomed to...romantic relationships"- _the words sounded so foreign_ \- "and have no idea what is involved to make a partnership work but, for you, I am-" He takes a deep breath, makes himself way it. "For you, I am willing to try. And...things."

She smiled. It was the sweet, gentle smile Molly Hooper saved only for Sherlock. He knew she'd been waiting for this moment for years and a sharp pang of hurt flew through his chest as he replayed the ignorant remarks he'd made to her in the past. She deserved more from him and, from this moment forward, he would try to be the man she hoped he could be.

He had his doubts about how successful he'd be, but he's determined to try.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for saying that. I know it's not easy for you to say those things." Molly moved to step toward him, but restrained herself - she was still tentative, wary. "I believe you know how I've felt about you all these years so me saying yes probably won't be a surprise." Surprise, or not, hearing it spoken aloud made something twist in Sherlock's chest, just a little bit. "But, I want you to know, Sherlock, that I'm not same Molly Hooper you left two years ago," she said. " I won't be pushed around, yeah? I don't expect you to change who you are, but if this-" Her hand pointed from her to Sherlock and back to her again- "Is going to have any chance, then I expect you to be a bit more mindful of my feelings."

He nodded his head and smiled back at her. "Understood."

"Good...well...then I suppose we should get back to work." She took a step back from him, the apprehensiveness all too obvious on her face. Her body language told him she wanted to move to him, most likely embrace him yet she feared his reaction.

"Molly."

She stopped. "Yes?"

Sherlock slowly and silently crossed the short distance between them and took her by the elbows, pulling her toward him. For a moment she seemed confused and then she acquiesced, understanding. Stepping closer so that her body was flush with his. Molly's cheek rested on his chest and her arms wrapped around his waist. For a moment her fingers brushed the small of his back, bunching the fabric of his shirt but at the last moment they fanned upwards, bringing their warmth to rest on his shoulder blades. Sherlock waited, catalogued this feeling. Comfortable. Relaxing. Her warmth settled him, calmed his constantly spinning mind in a way that drugs or nicotine never had. His uni career would have gone much more smoothly if he'd only had access to this. _So much time wasted_ , he thought ruefully. _So many opportunities lost._ She could have been his anchor, his touchstone to the mortal world that so often shunned him as a freak.

_Thankfully, however, she still appeared up for that job._

They stood, comfortable in the silence, for several minutes before Sherlock kissed the top of Molly's head and separated from her. A bit awkward and unsure for their first official foray into physicality, but it felt right nonetheless. She looked up at him and smiled before the two of them moved back to their respective workstations. He'd only just resumed his notes when the security guard poked his head inside the door.

"A few students here to see Dr. Hooper."

Molly looked at her watch. "Oh, yes, the demonstration." She waved her hand. "Send them in, please."

The man (Sherlock should probably ask his name at some point) stepped back outside and held open the door for the four medical students. Three men (William not among them) and one young woman entered and made their way toward Molly. They all glanced at Sherlock nervously as he regarded them only with a raised eyebrow. They were anxious - due to Sherlock's presence or the idea of examining a body, he couldn't be absolutely positive but either reason amused him greatly. Molly smiled her charming Molly smile and greeted them as if they were all there for a tea party.

"Right. Afternoon everyone. Today you get to perform an autopsy and see what's inside the marvelous human body. Follow me, now." She began walking to the door and the group followed like white coated ducklings after their mother. "Oh, and if anyone needs to...well...vomit...there's a loo right over there."

Sherlock almost laughed out loud at how two of the group (both males) physically blanched at the thought. Molly held the door for the four of them as the filed into the other room, then turned to Sherlock.

"Be an hour or so, then, handsome." She whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Sherlock squinted his eyes at her. "Don't make me regret our conversation, Hooper."

She snickered. "One whisper of commitment, and you're already bossing me around."

She winked, noticing the ghost of a smile that played across his lips, and disappeared into the autopsy theater. He settled himself in front of his laptop and set to working on the identity of the Scalpel Artist. With Paul Lewis identified as Molly's anonymous flower deliverer, Sherlock had one less person for whom to search. Normally that would have been an encouragement, but someone who would sneak into the morgue and deface a body in order to show off to Molly was much more concerning to him.

He'd searched the previous evening for any internet content that might be focused on Molly. There were two websites dedicated to her ( _Didn't compare to his 47 but still, not bad, Hooper_ ). The content was mundane and harmless - fan clubs, for the most part - praising Molly for her role in Sherlock's death; questioning her relationship with Sherlock ( _and Lestrade?_ ) and various comments regarding her independent fashion sense.

It was the Sherlock websites that held more concerning subject matter. Jealousy. Petty insults. Threats. The internet was full of individuals posturing for attention and Sherlock was sure that the great majority of these people used the websites to showcase themselves by insulting others (Sherlock preferred to do it in person). However, someone - maybe someone on one of these sites had taken it a step too far. Threatened Molly with an obscene love letter that spoke of a deranged mind and plans for Molly Hooper that would, undoubtedly, be less than pleasant. And the mere thought of 'less than pleasant' made Sherlock clench his jaw in anger.

Sherlock spent the next hour searching the internet and tasking his homeless network with surveillance; Barts, Molly's flat, John and Mary's as well as Sherlock's home would be watched as well. He finished his last text as Molly's students made their way from the other room - once again stealing glances his way, as if he were an object in a museum. One of the young women smiled flirtatiously as she exited the room.

Molly stepped in behind them and raised her eyebrow in his direction as she noticed the medical student's reaction to Sherlock. Annoyed. Jealous. Amused. She shook her head from side to side as she made her way back to her desk.

"Do you need some lunch? I'm getting hungry."

"I never eat in the middle of a case, you should know that. I still need to work on identifying the culprit behind the defaced corpse. He's elusive, this one. No obvious clues, nothing on the security camera that stands out. I'm reduced to following breadcrumbs in the forest. Bloody frustrating, really."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

The old Sherlock would have ignored her comment and continued with his search, focused more on the outcome than anything else. But the tone in her voice made it unacceptable for him to disregard. Disappointment was evident, obviously, given their earlier conversation. However, apprehension (fear) was more prevalent in her countenance. He glanced over to where she sat, looking so small and fragile as she attempted to busy herself. The skin around her eyes was grey and her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Had she slept last night? Most likely not. Probably hadn't eaten much either. His obsession with solving the case would not help Molly in the short term. He needed to keep her safe - not just by finding her stalker but by ensuring she took care of herself physically.

He spun on the seat and bounded up from the chair, clapping his hands together as he rose.

"On second thought, I _could_ use something to eat. Probably help the brain work more efficiently with some proper nutrition, after all. Get your coat, Molly, we're going to lunch."

Molly held his gaze and nodded, her soft smile conveying her understanding of Sherlock's small sacrifice for her. He retrieved his belstaff from the counter as Molly took off her lab smock and draped it over the chair.

"I need to stop by my locker to get my coat and bag."

"Obviously."

Molly paused before they moved toward the door. "Sherlock...thank you."

He waved his hand dismissively. "No thank you's necessary. Food benefits us both. And there is a small Armenian restaurant just down the street that owes me a debt."

"Armenian food? Can't say I've ever tried it."

"No? Well, their byoreks are really quite remarkable."

He knew Molly's gratitude wasn't solely directed at his offer of lunch, but one deep conversation was quite enough for the day (if not a lifetime). Although, if he were to be completely honest, it wasn't such a painful thing to express his feelings to Molly. It actually felt...right. Freeing. Then again, most things related to Molly Hooper felt right and freeing.

As they made their way out of the lab and down the hall to the locker rooms, (asking the bodyguard his name as he followed - James, it was) Sherlock once again placed his hand at the small of Molly's back. Yes, that felt right.

~oOo~


	7. Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So sorry for taking too long to update. I will really try to get an update sooner rather than later. Thank you very much for reading. Hope you enjoy.**
> 
> **Continued thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her amazing beta. She is absolutely fantastic at helping me to bring these scenes to life.**

~oOo~

The Armenian restaurant was cramped, crowded and fantastic. Molly and Sherlock spent an hour eating, discussing cases (well, if discussion could be defined as Sherlock regaling her with stories of his successes) and watching- _deducing_ \- people. She knew she wasn't very good at it, but that didn't deter Sherlock. He would choose someone, offer up the first deduction and then throw it to Molly for her interpretation. ( _Come on, Molly, give it a go. You can't be any worse than John._ ) At first she took it seriously, but after a few minutes, she began to come up with outlandish stories for their targets, slyly smiling and chuckling as she ran down their mysterious dossiers. He caught on to her game as soon as she identified a short, stocky man as an international spy and, before she'd realized, they'd passed an hour eating and inventing all manner of double lives for the unsuspecting patrons.

It was… surprisingly fun, actually.

Despite the specter of someone 'out there' with intentions toward her that may or may not involve a scalpel (she didn't really want to dwell on what other instruments might be involved), Molly was happy - happier than she'd been in a very long time. Sherlock's admission of his...fondness- _she was still hesitant to define it as anything more_ \- toward her filled Molly with such a sense of contentment and hope that she genuinely felt as if she were in some sort of alternate universe. For so long she'd waited for any hint that her feelings for him might be reciprocated that to actually hear the words and then embrace him so intimately (he really did smell lovely) - it made her fear that it was all some elaborate joke. But the seriousness in his eyes and easy demeanor with her during lunch wasn't a charade - this was the Sherlock she'd wanted to know for years. The Sherlock who hid from the public and those he didn't trust.

He just wasn't hiding from _her_ anymore.

She wished they could stay tucked in their own world for the rest of the day. But, life waited and the two of them gathered their things and walked outside to be greeted by a rare sunny London afternoon.

"Oh, it's so lovely today. Such a waste to spend it in my lab instead of at the park."

"Well...then don't." She turned to look up at him. He'd turned away from her and was presently surveying the crisp, blue sky.

"What?"

He looked down at her in that distinctive Sherlock fashion that said she really must be an idiot for asking (eyebrow raised, lip cocked to the side). "I said...don't waste it."

Molly's nose crinkled. "I do have work to finish."

"Rubbish. Those bodies aren't going to get any more dead, Molly. And I'm sure you've plenty of time off saved up."

Sherlock Holmes suggesting a lazy afternoon off? She was in that alternate universe after all. Molly crossed her arms and faced him, squinting her eyes and leaning forward. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?"

He rolled his eyes. "Really, Molly. I _am_ capable of enjoying myself."

She began to respond when the text alert on Sherlock's phone sounded.

Molly raised her eyebrow and smiled. "A Dalek alert tone?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I watched a lot of television during the down time when I was away. It's an inventive show."

"One that I've been telling you to watch for years."

"Yes, well..." Sherlock's undoubtedly witty response died in his throat as his eyes scanned the screen, a scowl descending upon his face as he read the message. He looked up from his phone, clicked off the device and put it back in his pocket. "Lestrade has an urgent case. I would imagine we'll only be gone a few hours. Then we can go to your flat and pick up items you'll need to stay at Baker Street for the duration."

"While I appreciate you wanting me to be your Consulting Assistant," - her fingers made quotations in the air- "I really do need to finish up my reports this afternoon. And," he would probably give her that Sherlock Look again, so she spoke over him. Molly really wasn't sure she'd heard him quite right. "Did you just say you want me to stay at your flat?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "It's the obvious course of action, Molly. I can't very well ensure your safety if you're in another location."

"But I can stay with John and Mary. You don't have to…"

"Molly, you should know better than to think I do _anything_ because I have to. I'm a selfish, annoying bastard. But I'm also a selfish, annoying bastard who is committed to keeping you from harm. I think I made that quite clear in our earlier conversation. Now, kindly shut it and do what I say without arguing, yes?"

She nodded her head and smiled. "Just in this one instance. After that, all bets are off."

He returned her smile and slowly, tentatively brought his hand up to caress her cheek. She shivered at his touch; she knew he did not give them easily. That was plainly evident in the unsteadiness of his hand on her face and his awkward, boyish smile as his thumb trailed along her jawline. For a split second they just… stared at one another. And then, as suddenly as he'd made the gesture, his hand returned to his side.

"Good," he said softly. He looked slightly… disconcerted by what he'd done. But not, Molly couldn't help but notice, sorry. "You're welcome to boss me around another time then," he said, nodding his head curtly and turning away, attempting to shut down the conversation further.

Molly didn't want him to do that. She didn't want him to walk away. Even that fleeting glimpse of this new Sherlock seemed to be… habit-forming. So though he moved back, her own hand followed him, her nearness chasing his. She stopped, one hand on his arm and looked at him. She needed…she didn't _want_ that brief moment of contact to end.

And besides, it was best to get this out of the way now.

"Sherlock," she said, "I really do need to get back to the hospital. I will stay at your flat as you've asked, but as much as I like the idea of you looking after me, I can't be with you all the time. You have cases...I have work. Your brother arranged for a bodyguard and I'm sure James is very effective at his job." Molly moved closer and resisted the urge to take his hand in hers. _Don't push, Hooper._ "I promise I'll be safe..."

A slight scowl descended over his face. _Serious Sherlock_ , she thought. She could practically see him measuring his words before he spoke. Her previous warning about not talking to her as if she were an idiot had obviously made some sort of impact. "I'm not entirely comfortable with you at the hospital by yourself," he said stiffly, after a moment. "I think you should remain with me."

"I've got James here to look out for me, don't I?"

Sherlock glanced at the man standing behind them, then looked back to her. His face shifted - the concentration lines softened but the intensity remained. Apparently James passed muster, or at least would do until Molly's _real_ protector was free. It was…it was the most arrogantly sweet thing she'd ever seen him do. "True," he said. He turned his head to look at her and this time his expression was once again intense. "But you stay with him, Molly. Until I've found this anonymous git, you're in danger."

She nodded. "I will."

He inclined his head in return. The stiffness of the Old Sherlock was back. "See that you do," he said curtly.

Molly fought back the urge to smile. All those time he'd chided her, ignored her attempts at conversation - and here she now stood with his attention firmly focused on her...And, it seemed, on her... mouth? Definitely, Molly realized, her mouth. His eyes darted from her eyes to her lips and back again, the look almost furtive. His brow puckering in a frown as if he couldn't quite understand what he wanted to do...or why he'd never done it before. Molly hadn't been kissed often ( _understatement of the century_ , she thought) but she was sure Sherlock Holmes intended to kiss her now. In fact, she was so sure of it that they stood for a moment before he moved forward ever so slightly and she shifted towards him involuntarily. Her eyes never left his - she didn't want to break whatever moment hung between them - and as he got closer she felt his hand come up to gently cup her elbow. It was almost like he thought she'd walk away. But as suddenly as it began, Sherlock abruptly stepped backward, cleared his throat and clasped his arms behind his back. He looked…he looked almost rattled, and Molly had to make herself push down the knee-jerk reaction that she'd misread the situation.

He was fond of her, she reminded herself. She _hadn't_ misread anything at all. He was just a little nervous, and they had that in common.

Sherlock pointedly stared at James and directed his next comment toward the bodyguard. "Don't you take any chances with her. If there is so much as a hair out of place when I see her next, you and I will…have a chat." She saw James nod curtly - a hint of a smile shone in his eyes. Sherlock turned to address Molly. "I'll be back at Baker Street as soon as I can. Try..." He threw her a slightly wry look. " _Try_ not to get into too much trouble before I get back."

She smiled shyly. "I make no promises."

He shook his head. "I really wish you would."

He darted forward and kissed her cheek before she could stop him, then turned and walked away briskly, his belstaff flowing behind him like a cape. _Sherlock Holmes, London's own superhero_ , she thought to herself. She pulled her handbag up higher on her shoulder and looked back at James. "I suppose my afternoon off will have to wait, James. Let's head back to my corpses, then."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," he answered, and they set off. Maybe someday, Molly mused as they went, she and Sherlock would spend a day in the park and she would get that kiss.

And maybe someday some lunatic wouldn't be trying to ruin her life.

She shook her head ruefully to herself. Somehow, she doubted today would be that day.

~oOo~

The afternoon passed quickly with Molly finishing the few reports that she'd started the day before. The lack of sleep the night prior, stress over what her stalker intended for her - and those around her - had finally hit her hard. As she hit send on the last document, she was overcome with exhaustion. She sat back in her chair and ran her shaky hands across her face. Molly just wanted to go home, make herself a cuppa and snuggle on the couch to watch tv with Toby.

Poor Toby. Her sweet cat must be going crazy about now. She hadn't spent a night away from home since she'd gotten him. It was a good thing her 'two men' already seemed to get along well - if she was to be in Holmes Protective Custody for the foreseeable future, she had no intention of leaving Toby home alone. When Sherlock stayed at her place briefly after his death, Toby would follow the man around everywhere. She'd even caught the little furball cuddling with Sherlock on her sofa. The fuzzy traitor.

Molly gathered her things, shut out the lights and walked out of the lab. She nodded at James who quickly stepped up beside her. Sort of nice to have a strong, semi-handsome bloke to be her protector. _Although_ , she thought, _it'd be nicer if he was taller and had cheekbones that could crack an egg._

She smiled as she realized that that was precisely what was waiting for her in Baker Street, and set course for home in order to pack her bags - and her Toby - and get to her new lodgings with all possible speed.

~oOo~

Sherlock solved the case within thirty minutes, left Lestrade at the crime scene and was now stomping his way through the backstreets of London. He would have had the bloody case wrapped up within fifteen minutes if he could have concentrated for more than three minutes at a time. But that had been impossible: Facts and data fell away when the image of Molly's highly snoggable face appeared prominently in the forefront of his mind. He'd thought of her in a sexual way before - he'd thought of many women in a sexual way before- but those thoughts had been ...detached. Separate. Borne out of curiosity and boredom rather than some absurd notion of romantic passion. But Molly wasn't _his_ then. She was someone just outside of his reach. Tucked away safely in what John dismissively called the 'friend zone'. But now they were...a couple? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Partners? Lovers?

Was that what he wanted?

He turned a corner and almost ran head on into a teenager. Sherlock stopped, cursed and bypassed the young man - oblivious to Sherlock due to his furious texting. He remained where he stood, staring ahead at nothing while thoughts flew fast and furious through his head.

Was this what affection for another person truly meant? He would now turn into _John Besotted Watson_ , texting Molly at all hours of the day and night, mooning over her like some idiotic school boy with a perpetual stiffy?

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous, and yet...not. He'd faffed about at the crime scene with Lestrade hovering about, waiting for Sherlock's brilliant deduction as if angels were going to sing and the heavens open wide at any moment. But Sherlock couldn't _observe_ …couldn't see what was obviously right in front of him until he forced himself to shift all data regarding Molly firmly away in his mind palace so he could focus on the task at hand. And even when the case was solved (finally) and Lestrade offered his copious 'brilliants', 'amazings' and 'who'd have thoughts', Sherlock could think of nothing other than what Molly might taste like.

_You would have found out if you'd had the bollocks to follow through on that kiss earlier, moron_ , a voice that sounded remarkably like John's pointed out.

_You still might find out what she tastes like today,_ a voice that sounded strangely like Molly's opined.

Sherlock shook his head, tried to force the thoughts away. He needed to damn well pull himself together. If he'd known this is what would result from a romantic entanglement with another person, he never would have made the rash decision to engage in one with Molly, for God's sake.

_Bloody liar, you are_ , a voice whispered, and he thought this one might be his own.

Sherlock huffed a curse word to himself and pushed his feet to move - skulking his way through the streets, his hands stuffed in his coat pocket and face staring down at the pavement. It would be easy to blame Molly for his distraction. The feel of her next to him, the smell of her hair as he'd held her close, the smooth texture of her skin underneath his lips - all of Molly's Data flooded his brain. And though he knew he probably should, he couldn't seem to push it away this time. He didn't _want_ to. It was in Sherlock's nature to succumb to an addiction and he couldn't help but think that Molly might become his newest one. The thought should have frightened him- Any addict, even he, had respect for the power such a compulsion could wield. You didn't get free of it by underestimating how much it could or had cost you. And yet…if Molly and puzzles were to be his poison, then he might consider himself lucky. Maybe addiction was the most appropriate word to describe what he was feeling - he wouldn't go so far to say it was anything else (yet).

And if that was so then he supposed there were worse fates.

Still, he needed to rein in these overwhelming...urges and focus on finding the culprit who dared to infringe on the personal safety of his pathologist. He brought his head up to search for a taxi - the afternoon light was giving way to dusk and it was about time he returned to Molly. He was reaching in his pocket for his phone when it rang. An almost embarrassing surge of happiness flooded his chest as he saw the name _Molly Hooper_ flashing on the screen. He swiped his finger across the display and placed the phone next to his ear.

"Molly, I'm finished here - dreadfully boring case. I need to help Lestrade redefine the use of the term 'urgent'. Waste of my time. Anyway, taxi's here - you still at Bart's?"

That delightfully warm feeling vanished at the sound of Molly's terrified voice.

"Sherlock...someone was in my flat." Her voice shook. "He was _here_."

There was no question of who the "he," was, just as there was no question of what Sherlock would do. He barked at the driver to change directions, heading away from Bart's and to Molly's flat, listening to Molly all the way there, trying to calm her, aware only of the anger- no, _rage-_ coiling in his chest.

The idiot who did this was going to pay.

~oOo~


	8. Something Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, commenting and bookmarking. As always, I owe so much to hobbitsdoitbetter for her unending input and ability to help craft this story into something better than when it started. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

~oOo~

When they were younger, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes often retreated to the woods surrounding their parents home to explore. Those moments in which they were typical boys were few and far between - but when they did roughhouse or play imaginary games, they gave it their full attention. Sometimes, when Mycroft was in a torturous mood, he would tease Sherlock as they returned to their house in the encroaching dusk. He would whisper about monsters and boogeymen emerging from the shadows to eat them alive.

It wasn't so much the notion of some malignant beast chasing him which had worried Sherlock. It had been the notion that he couldn't _see_ it which had bothered him. Even as a boy, he had greatly prized the evidence of his own two eyes. And yet…at that age Sherlock had been willing to take Mycroft's word for it. Had been willing to break into a run and push himself as fast as his long legs would carry him, heart pounding in his chest, spurred on by the fear of being consumed by some horrific supernatural creature that was hard on his heels - _"Run, Sherlock, they're almost on you!" -_ Just before Sherlock's hand would touch the door handle, he would have sworn he could feel the beast's breath on his neck.

And it was this memory which stirred through his brain as he pounded up the stairs to Molly's flat, that same childhood dread of the unknown- the unseen- which flooded his mind as he reached for the brass handle of Molly's front door. The memory of grappling with a thing you couldn't see yet feared with all your heart mixing in with the newer, more adult sentiments of worry and anger. The rage that someone was harming what was his. The monster was loose again - but it wasn't after Sherlock any longer...its nose had picked up Molly Hooper's scent. It was hiding in shadows, hunting her, running her to ground…

And Sherlock Holmes wasn't about to let anything - mythical beastie or human psychopath - touch as much of a single hair on his Molly's head. It would not happen.

_It already has, you foolish boy,_ Mycroft's voice sounded sardonically in his head.

_She's alright_ , Sherlock inwardly snapped back, trying to ignore how hollow the words sounded until he could confirm them with his own two eyes.

He burst through the door and was immediately met by stalwart James the Bodyguard whirling around on him, the man's hand pulling his gun from its holster just before he recognized who he was about to shoot. ( _Good on you, James._ ) Both men took a moment to breathe deeply and refocus themselves. Wouldn't do Molly any good for her two brainless protectors to kill each other. The bodyguard cocked his head to the side, directing Sherlock's attention to Molly, sitting on her sofa, the cat ( _Name...name...Tabby? Toby? Yes, Toby_ ) cradled in her lap. Sherlock felt the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, push out of his lungs. ( _She's fine. Absolutely fine._ )

For a moment he just blinked at her like an idiot, not entirely certain what to do now he knew that she was physically uninjured. It had been one thing to hear her say so but another to _see_ it.

She looked up as he approached, her red rimmed eyes, tense set of her jaw and hunched shoulders telling him everything he needed to know about her current mental state. Terrified. She's _terrified_.

He wanted to do something about it, but couldn't begin to imagine what.

Even as a boy he had always managed those emotions on his own. And by managed, he meant ignored.

But he can't- he won't- ignore this.

"He's been in my flat," she's saying. "Taking my things. I...I don't know how long it's been going on…."

Molly's lip twitched and her head moved from side to side as she stammered out the words.

Sherlock stood before her, his back straightening and jaw clenched shut. Molly's fear only served to worsen the tension already coursing through his body. He should comfort her - assure her safety, speak soothing words into her ear. Yet doing so would plunge him further into the mental chaos that threatened to engulf him. He wouldn't...he didn't know how to _do_ any of that. Not like a real person. Not in a way that wasn't fake. And now was hardly the time for experimentation, he'd more likely make her worse. His attachment to Molly had already rendered him nearly impotent at the crime scene earlier. The last thing he - or Molly - needed was for him to lose himself completely in this... _sentiment_.

And yet…he couldn't not do something. He couldn't leave her alone in this.

He knew he was neither a good nor a kind man, but he'd be damned if he let his own cowardice hurt her at a time like this.

So Sherlock walked toward her slowly - as if she were a rabbit ready to flee from any sudden movements. He took time to survey the room - nothing obviously out of place - before he knelt down in front of Molly. Placed his hands on her knees- _that isn't asinine or sentimental, is it? -_ he asked himself- even as he tried not to notice how good that simple touch felt. How grounding. Toby regarded Sherlock apathetically ( _is there any other emotion for a feline?_ ) as he took one of Molly's hands in his. She was shaking (shivering) - probably in a mild state of shock. He knew a little of how she felt and that thought disconcerted him even more. But-

"Molly, I've called Lestrade - a team should be here presently." He kept his voice low and quiet, attempting to soothe Molly enough so that she could give him vital details. "What did he take?"

She drew in a breath and closed her eyes - Molly was calming herself. Pushing down her fear enough to get through the questions. Pride bloomed in his chest - she was a brave one, his Molly.

"One of my shirts, an old picture of me that I had in my desk drawer, a necklace, one of my bras and...a pair of my knickers."

His jaw set tighter and he rocked back on his heels angrily. Images flooded his brain - previous crime scenes where women had been assaulted, tortured…worse. Quite without his permission his mind replaced those unknown faces with Molly's -replaced those mangled bodies with hers, so dear, so known and so fragile. At the thought Sherlock shook his head, shooting up and stumbling slightly backwards, trying to mask the motion as his own clumsiness. His hands pressing to his eyes - attempting to shut out the gruesome slideshow.

_Delete the data, Holmes. Delete it and work the facts._

"Sherlock?" Molly's soft voice grounded him back to the present.

He shook his head and turned back, looking down at Molly ( _So small...so breakable..._ ) "Fine. Yes. Just needed to process the information. Let me think, now."

And he nodded certainly, trying to lend her his confidence, trying to drape them both in it.

He didn't want to think anymore about how small and how easy to break she might prove.

The stalker was stealing tokens and mementos. Sherlock imagined a scene reminiscent of the case boards he put on his wall - pictures, items, facts - all related to Molly. Stolen from her home - _was she here when he intruded?_ \- and displayed in a perverse shrine. Nothing unusual in that, it was practically Stalker 101. The familiar protective rage began to simmer in his belly though at the mere notion that this cretin might have been in her home while she was present. Possibly on purpose, possibly with the intent of making face to face contact. What the bastard could have done to Molly - what he still could do to Molly-

_Stop._ _Too much. Focus on the case, Holmes._

_Don't think of how badly you know these cases often go._

"How do you know he took them, Molly?" he asked instead. "That you didn't just misplace these items?"

Her eyes flashed to his - her brow furrowed with confusion and hurt. Molly was about to snap back at him when she realized that his question would be the first one Lestrade and his men would ask. She set her jaw and answered.

"I went to pack my things - but my nightshirt wasn't there. At first, I didn't think anything of it. I continued putting things in my bag and noticed one of my bras was missing. It was then I started to get worried. I looked through my hamper and realized that my bra, nightshirt and a pair of my knickers that I'd put in there a few days ago…"

"How many?"

Molly's eyes blinked as if she didn't understand the question. "Of my knickers? One pair."

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. While the intimate nature of the items taken worried him, that wasn't what he needed to know. "How many days ago did you put them in the washing hamper?" he asked.

"Three days."

He nodded. "So not fresh. Continue."

Molly blinked, but if she thought the comment in poor taste she said nothing. "I panicked then. Looked in my desk and my jewelry and saw that the picture and necklace were gone. But I don't know how long ago those were taken...he could have been in here weeks ago."

Her breath hitched again and Sherlock could see her chest rise and fall rapidly. She was starting to panic and he needed to keep her calm. So-

"Molly. Breathe. In and out." She did as he demonstrated. He stood and watched as she stroked Toby's fur, trying not to note how much her hand trembled as she did so. Trying not to be dismayed at how much he had to disregard that piece of data for his own good when he usually observed everything. In a normal relationship, Sherlock mused, he would be sitting with her on the couch and holding her in his arms to provide physical comfort. But the stimulation to him was already too much - anxiety, fear, anger - emotions that had always been so easily compartmentalized in the past rampaged through his body. _It was unproductive chaos, and it might get her killed._ One part of him did want to take his place next to Molly - give her what limited support he could. But that wouldn't do right now. It wouldn't serve any purpose other than to distract him from what needed to be done.

"Is there anything else you can think of?"

She shook her head and wiped a tissue over her nose. Held Toby a little tighter.

"Right. I'm going to look around now." He paused for a moment, listening to her breathing return to normal. He should say something...supportive. "I'll be right here." He went to move away and then suddenly thought better of it. Darted forward and, before he could lose his nerve, placed his hand at Molly's cheek, his long fingers tracing the shell of her ear. She blinked at him and opened her mouth to speak but he merely nodded. Stepped away. Nodded once more, curtly.

His pulse was hammering.

Sherlock stepped to the right and let his eyes fall over the room. All the data about Molly went immediately into the appropriate compartment of his mind palace for later (quite a number of interesting and enlightening items of note). He began to move slowly through the flat and at least five relevant clues regarding the stalker appeared to him immediately. Molly hadn't imagined anything, and she had been correct as to the last time the intruder had been in her flat - three days. Three days ago, someone had broken in to her apartment using a sophisticated set of lockpicks (barely discernible marks on the deadbolt) and taken items that were not only personal but intimate to Molly - photos, clothing, trinkets. Nothing else in her home had been disturbed that he could observe.

Conclusions: The break in was the next step in the stalker's obsession with her. He'd been observing her, obviously. Could have followed her or simply done some reasonably simple internet searches for her home address. He was feeling emboldened enough to break into her home and steal things from her that he could use to further his purpose. That purpose - the end game - was the root cause of Sherlock's simmering anger. Watching wasn't quite as satisfying as interaction for the blighter. He'd proven that with the defaced body and angel figurine left in the morgue. He wanted something more - maybe he would be content with setting up a macabre shrine to Molly and sending her tokens of his affection through desecrated bodies. But it was unlikely, especially if he'd moved on to taking intimate things like underwear or jewellery. And the next time he decided to get close to Molly might mean _she_ would be the one who might end up with a love letter carved into her body. The violent images broke free again and flashed in front of him.

_Stop. STOP_. Sherlock put his hands to his face and inhaled deeply. _Calm down._ Descending further into 'what ifs' and scenarios in which Molly was subjected to the whims of a psychotic arsehole would not do right now.

Right now, he needed to get her back to Baker Street and hope that the forensic team might be able to recover one fingerprint to point Sherlock in the precise direction of the man who would be on the receiving end of Sherlock's wrath.

Sherlock turned to speak to Molly when he heard John and Mary's raised voices in the hallway. James had apparently seen them coming and was doing his best to bar them from Molly's flat.

_No idea what you've gotten yourself into, old boy,_ Sherlock thought.

"I don't care _who_ you are. My friends are in there, Jason Statham, and if you don't move your shaved head and...and...biceps, I'll go _through_ you." Mary's voice was even, low and deadly. "Don't think for a minute I won't."

Molly's head perked up at the sound of her friend. Sherlock glanced her way and rolled his eyes - at least that elicited a wisp of a smile from his pathologist.

James' voice could be heard attempting to calm the pair, but Sherlock could hear the sharp intake of breath just as Mary prepared to launch into the poor man again - hopefully not with her fists. "James, it's fine. Let them in." He called.

Mary burst into the room followed closely by John, who cast a backwards glance to the bodyguard before turning his focus to Sherlock. John mouthed, _He's huge_. Sherlock rolled his eyes and _harumphed_ under his breath. James wasn't _that_ big.

"Molly, sweetheart…" Mary flung herself down on sofa next to Mary and pulled her into a tight embrace before leaning back and cupping Molly's cheeks in her hands. "You alright? You look a fright, love." Mary directed her attention. "Tell me you're close to finding this bastard."

"Close...yes."

Mary set her jaw. "He's coming for her, Sherlock, mark my words. You have to find him before...well, just find him." Her voice was hard…commanding.

The indications of worry and fear were glaringly obvious on Mary. He hadn't known Mary for long, but it had been long enough to know that when she was concerned about someone or something, her emotions shifted into quite a professional mentality. She liked to be in control of a situation and, unfortunately, this was one scenario where that was not possible.

"Mary, I know quite well what's at stake in this game and I have no intention of allowing anyone to put so much as a _finger_ on my Molly. Your concern is noted. " His frustration was beginning to mount again - a combination of knowing someone was out there who was currently besting him at the game and his concern for keeping Molly safe. Before he lashed out and said anything out of turn, he needed to get out of the flat.

"Molly will be staying with me until this mess is sorted," he said. "If you want to do something helpful, stay here while the police do their job and lock up when you leave." He glanced around the room and spotted the small cat perched on the kitchen counter. "And bring Toby round my place tomorrow."

Sherlock walked over to where Molly sat and held his hand out to her. Pulled her up to a standing position. Toby let out a small screech of frustration as he was unceremoniously dumped from his comfortable perch. Sherlock grabbed a small bag - the one that Molly had managed to put together before the unsettling discovery of her stalker's visit - put his arm around her shoulder and marched out the door, James following close behind. They left the flat without another word.

John turned to his fiance with a raised eyebrow. "His Molly?"

Mary smiled. Grinned, really. " _His_ Molly. You heard him, love."

John shook his head. Trust Sherlock Holmes not to notice his feelings until they involved a crime scene. "Well, it's about bloody time Sherlock extracted his massive cranium from his arse and got on with it," he said. "Maybe now Molly can manage some of that restless toddler energy, eh?"

"Maybe." The couple moved to the couch and sat down. Toby decided that any lap was a good lap and bounded down from the counter and resumed his position on Mary's legs.

Apparently loyalty was not a trait much found in cats.

"They're good for each other." Mary took John's hand as she spoke. "As much as I want to smack the annoying git most of the time, Sherlock really does care for Molly. He'll treat her well. And if he doesn't, _she'll_ be the one to smack him. Followed by me...and you." She smiled, ran her hands through Toby's fur. "Never thought Sherlock would grow up so fast," she snickered.

John's laughter joined hers. But his voice was low as he took his fiance's hand. "If anything happens to her though, Mary…"

"It won't. He won't let it. _We_ won't let it."

John nodded his head He was glad that Sherlock could have some happiness in his life that didn't involve experimenting on body parts or solving cases. But John was also greatly concerned - now that Sherlock had made his intentions known to Molly, if anything should happen to her - it would destroy his best friend. Sherlock Holmes didn't do half measures. _Just ask Irene bloody Adler_. Molly was Sherlock's now - even if he probably didn't know what the hell to do with a girlfriend, of all things. But if this unhinged lunatic managed to hurt Molly, it may very well be the end of the Consulting Detective.

They needed to find the person responsible before it was too late for Molly - and for Sherlock.

~oOo~

From where he stood - hidden by the shadows - the man could see Molly Hooper's flat perfectly. She hadn't been home last night; that was disconcerting. His Molly was nothing if not predictable. She liked her routine - he loved that about her. Maybe his tribute to her hadn't been received as well as he had hoped. He should have thought it through better. _Stupid_. She hadn't understood his motive - he wanted to show her that someone cared for her more than anyone in the world.

Molly Hooper was an angel. His angel.

His attention was drawn back to Molly's flat and a scowl descended on his face as he watched her leave with Sherlock Holmes. _No_. Not him. Not Holmes. Not The Great User…The Great User of Molly. He took her for granted. She deserved so much more.

She deserved so much more than Holmes would ever give her.

Yet, as the man watched Holmes stopped her on the steps down from her house, one hand curling at her elbow. Lowered his head to say something soft in her ear. It looked…tender. Familiar. The touch of someone who knew their presence was both welcome and longed for. The touch of someone for whom Molly cared.

The man's fingers curled and clenched around the object in his hand, jealousy curling in his innards. Molly associating with Sherlock Holmes at the hospital was one thing - _this_ was unacceptable. Holmes was looking at her as if she belonged to _him_ and she didn't. She didn't. He'd never allow it. Molly Hooper would never belong to Sherlock Holmes and that was an end to it.

No, she belonged to someone much more worthy.

The man turned sharply and threw the necklace to the ground before grinding his heel into the metal and faux jewels. It was time that Molly understood.

~oOo~


	9. Stop the Press

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who are bookmarking and reading. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> I owe so much to hobbitsdoitbetter for her spectacular support and amazing beta. She's just brilliant. Thank you, love.
> 
> Comments are much appreciated.

~oOo~

Molly woke abruptly to the sound of a loud crash. Her body was stiff and her heart raced, fear and tension coiling low in her stomach. Still half asleep she sat in silence, her breath held in anticipation, a silent plea repeating in her head- _please no, please no_ \- until she heard the familiar baritone resonate downstairs.

"Bloody hell. Look what you made me do!"

She let out a relieved sigh - _Sherlock_. And if, she were to hazard a guess, Toby. Her curious cat had evidently made his way to her host sometime in the middle of the night and now he was getting under the detective's feet. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, turned on her side and attempted to calm herself. The sudden noise had roused her from another vague nightmare -she had been frightened, hunted. Trapped. She hadn't been certain what she was running from, only that it was bad. Even the knowledge of her settled and secure in Sherlock's flat couldn't dispel the spectre hovering over her - s _omething wicked this way comes_...

Molly shuddered. She knew all too well what could happen to her if this particular something wicked decided that pilfering unmentionables and items from her flat weren't enough. She'd been an unwitting pawn once before when the game hadn't revolved around her, and now that it did, she was going to make damn sure that she didn't lose.

She sat up in bed and reached for the phone on her bedside table - cursing under her breath as she saw the time. She'd forgotten to set her alarm and now she was an hour behind schedule - apparently psychopathic stalkers also screwed up your daily routine. Sending a hurried text to Mike Stamford, Molly threw on a jumper over her pajamas and made her way downstairs where she found Sherlock in the kitchen muttering about, 'that damnable cat'.

"Sorry Toby got in your way." She stood just inside the archway with her arms crossed over her chest - the patented Molly Hooper Nervous Posture.

Sherlock turned to her, the remains of the shattered porcelain bowl resting in his hands. He was dressed in slacks and a collared shirt (deep purple) and looking frustratingly gorgeous. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, feeling (as she usually did in his presence) woefully inadequate.

He scowled and squinted his eyes in Toby's direction. "That cat of yours… annoying."

She rolled her eyes as he moved to throw the pieces into the bin. "He's a cat - they're supposed to be annoying." She shrugged, smiled slightly. "Besides, he likes you."

Sherlock stood up to his full height and stretched his back. _Not unlike that aforementioned feline_ , Molly smiled to herself again. "Yes, well, you can let him know that I'm not seeking his friendship. If he gets under my feet again, he'll find himself on the wrong end of a dissection."

"Mister Holmes, if I find that you've submitted Toby to any experiments, broken dishware will be the least of your problems."

A ghost of a smile played on the corner of his mouth. "I see. So that's how it's going to be, is it? Me or the cat?"

"Well, Toby _is_ a first rate bedwarmer, I don't know…" Molly stammered and looked down, the rest of the words - _how good you are yet_ \- dying on her lips. A flush crept up her neck and she knew her embarrassment was horribly evident. She shouldn't feel awkward - Sherlock was her... _something._ And that kind of banter should be alright between two people who were...well...who were somethings to each other.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. Molly forced herself to look up at him, one eyebrow raised in response. Stalemate. He turned away and stepped toward the counter.

That was when she noticed _why_ Sherlock was in the kitchen.

"You were...making breakfast." She said those simple words with such reverence and weight - as if Sherlock had just performed the most spectacular feat she'd ever seen. Which, quite truthfully, he had. Sherlock Holmes attempting to make anything for anyone was utterly and completely out of character. He expected others to bring things for him - not the other way around. She couldn't remember one time in the lab when he didn't hint, cajole or nag Molly about bringing him something to eat or drink.

It was Sherlock's turn to stammer. "Yes...well..I was hungry. I assumed you would be as well, so…" He regarded her surprised expression for a moment. "Don't look so shocked, Molly. I can fend for myself. I simply choose not to."

He stepped toward the counter and busied himself with putting some items on a plate - slightly burnt toast, runny eggs and four sausages. Molly took another glance around the kitchen and saw the pans piled in the sink - it looked as if Sherlock had attempted to make porridge as well only to burn the bottom of the tin ( _So that's the lingering smell_ , she thought).

"It's not...well, it's not much.".

She stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm, smiling gently. "It's perfect, really, Sherlock. Thank you."

He smiled back and pulled out a chair for her to sit and they began eating - an awkward silence descending over them for a few moments before Sherlock spoke.

"Did you...sleep well?"

He was trying. Awkward as it was for him to ask after someone's welfare - or anything else for that matter - he was trying to be the man he believed she wanted. It was these little moments that chipped away her instinct to keep him at arm's length. Sherlock was the most selfish, stubborn human on the planet - but for her, he was willing to step down from his lofty Perch of Superiority and attempt to do something selfless once and awhile. She couldn't pretend that wasn't attractive...or dangerous.

Molly nodded. "As well as could be expected, I suppose. Still don't fancy the idea that some bloke is running around out there with my knickers. Suppose I should be flattered though: I've got my own little fan club..." She chuckled mirthlessly.

She watched as Sherlock's jaw clench mid-bite as his countenance shifted instantly. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Make light of it, Molly." His eyes darted to the side and Molly could see the anxiousness build rapidly - his shoulders squared and his fingers grew slightly taut around the fork in his hand.

Immediately she felt contrite. "Sorry," she said quietly. "Just don't quite know how to manage a stalker. This has always been your area of expertise..."

A slight pause and then, "Yes, well… " He was staring at his hands now. "It shouldn't have to be be yours, I am well aware of that."

She looked up from her plate to see him leaned back in his chair - his hands steepled familiarly under his chin. The tension - the distance - was back, the almost relaxed smile from just a few moments earlier replaced with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. He was delving back into his mind again - finding peace and structure inward. Shutting her out in his frustration.

"This isn't your fault, you know." She nearly whispered the words.

His eyes snapped to hers and he regarded her almost as if she'd accused him of being the stalker.

"Indirectly, yes, it is."

Molly began to speak but Sherlock went first. "By my association with you, the world knows who you are, Molly. They know you are important to me and they will both love you and hate you for it. If I'd never involved you in my life… You wouldn't be in this position."

She shook her head. "Maybe. But I won't let you use this as an excuse…" She didn't want to finish the sentence - putting her fear into words might give them reality and that was a spell she didn't want to cast. She reached her hand toward his instead - expecting him to flinch away from her touch - but he let her fingers settle over his although he made no move to grasp her hand in return. "You told me that everything would be alright. And it will. You'll find him."

She put every ounce of her own certainty into that statement.

Sherlock stared at her, at their hands and then back at her again, opening his mouth to answer-

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice pierced the air. The woman fluttered into the room and halted in the doorway as she regarded Molly and Sherlock in their domestic scene. She quickly smiled and put her hand to her cheek (Did she sigh? Judging by Sherlock's derisive snort she must have) before her previous dismay descended again. She marched into the room and shoved a newspaper in Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock shifted and removed his hand from under Molly's. "You're upset about the paper? Really, Mrs. Hudson…" His voice dripped with irritation.

She tapped the picture on the front page pointedly and Molly watched as anger shrouded Sherlock's face.

"And look outside." Mrs. Hudson was in a full on dither now. Her hands winding together as she watched her tenant and pseudo son leap up from the chair and stalk his way over to the windows. Sherlock cursed (" _Bollocks!"_ ) and turned away, running his hand through his hair as he stood stock still - once again delving into that place in his mind where all else around him ceased to exist.

Molly stood up, confused and worried. "What's happened?"

Mrs. Hudson looked her way. "Oh, dear. The paper… They've got a picture of you and Sherlock. And the press. Oh, they're all outside."

Molly picked up the newspaper from the table and gasped at the picture. It showed Sherlock and she standing outside the restaurant the previous day, in the moment where she was sure Sherlock was about to kiss her. The frame below held a smaller photo of him kissing her cheek. ( _Shagalot Holmes' In Secret Siren Scandal?_ ) The sight of the photo - color but grainy and taken from far away - made her stomach roil. A beautiful memory now soiled by the knowledge that it had not been private. Something that should have been theirs alone was now being leered at and discussed by of thousands. She crumpled it in her hand and pushed past Mrs. Hudson only to be stopped by Sherlock before she could reach the windows. His hand grasped her bicep. "Don't."

"I'm already upset, Sherlock, seeing them isn't going to make it any worse."

He moved her in front of him, his hand still firmly in place - as if she would bolt the minute it was removed. "I'm not concerned with you seeing them, Molly. I'm concerned with _them_ seeing _you_."

She relaxed into his firm grip, realizing that her curiosity and anger would only serve to complicate the already complicated situation. He was right, obviously. The parasites outside were just waiting for another tantalizing picture of the two of them and she was five steps away from handing them that photo on a silver platter.

She stared up at him - at Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, not Sherlock Holmes, Boyfriend. His eyes were cold, his expression detached. He was much the same as he was the previous evening in her flat - analyzing, working through the options in his mind. There would be no consolation this morning - no whispered words of support or kisses on the cheek to let her know that he cared. Right now he was deducing, planning, strategizing and that left Molly to deal with her emotions on her own. This is the same Sherlock Holmes she'd known for years - his reaction shouldn't take her by surprise. Still, after all they'd been through in the last few days, she might hope for...more. _Stiff upper lip, Hooper_ , she thought.

Molly stepped backward removing Sherlock's hand from her arm with her own. "I'm going to get ready for work. I assume you'll have a plan to spirit me away under the noses of the press by the time I'm done."

She turned and made her way down the hallway to the toilet where she closed the door gently behind her. This would be the way of things, she supposed. She hadn't truly expected him to shower her with affection simply because he'd stated his... attachment to her. So, to await anything more of him in a moment of stress would be unfair. After all, she was staying in his home. He could have had Mycroft put her into protective custody and boarded in some random high security hotel or flat somewhere in London. But he hadn't. He'd insisted Molly stay with him. And for Sherlock, she knew that was significant. That understanding took away some of the sting from his earlier words.

_Keep Calm and Brush Your Teeth_. She nodded to herself and began getting ready for whatever this day might hold.

But if one person asked whether Sherlock made her wear the deer-stalker in bed, they'd end up on her bloody table.

~oOo~

Sherlock watched as Molly disappeared behind the washroom door, the anxiousness winding through him. She'd look tired this morning. Tired and worn and, and… beautiful. (It was still such a new thought to permit himself, that she was as lovely as he'd always known she was). She was trying to put on a brave facade, but the lines of tension were more than evident in her face, as well as the bloodshot eyes and puffy skin that indicated earlier tears. He'd meant every word of what he'd said in the kitchen - Molly shouldn't have to endure the obsession of a deranged fan simply because of her association with him.

And yet, that was precisely what was happening.

He'd been awake most of the night, plagued by those questions to which he had no answers. And in the dark, the 'what ifs' and 'possiblies' taunted him more cruelly than Moriarty had done when they'd stood face to face on the hospital roof. _What if I can't protect her? What if this stalker gets his hands on Molly? What if...what if...what if..._ The uncertainty haunted Sherlock: Maybe the idea (Delusion? Fantasy?) that he might be able to entertain a relationship with Molly was a mistake. She would be a target because of him. She _had been_ a target because of him. Even when he wasn't the focus, his notoriety tainted her.

And in the dark of the night, the idea of Molly Hooper in jeopardy simply because she was with him had felt like a lead weight on his chest.

He'd paced - stormed, really - through the flat - Molly's annoyingly persistent cat trailing him as he went. The moment he'd made up his mind that it was in Molly's best interest to break off this, this _thing_ between them, Sherlock had found himself standing in the open doorway of her room. The hallway light had spilled into that small space and illuminated her sleeping form. His heart had skipped a beat as he watched her slow, steady breathing in the dim light. He'd been unsettled. Distracted. Anxious about the fact that, once again, his control seemed to slip whenever he was around Molly. The pride in his ability to detach from distractions like sentiment and conscience evaporated with her. He had hung his head then, knowing that he was bound to stomp on her feelings, make her cry and be a generally horrible partner - boyfriend? - but that he would not abandon her… He could not ever abandon her, not his Molly.

The thought was both terrifying and oddly calming.

And now Sherlock stood in the middle of his flat, trying to refocus himself back to the task at hand rather than on the nebulous what ifs and negative scenarios that revolved around his Molly being mercilessly tortured at the hands of a faceless stranger. He needed a solid plan. A plan to bring the bastard out into the open. Something would have to be done to gain the upper hand and flush the rat out of his nest.

The pack of wolves sniffing around outside might do very well toward that end.

_Good,_ he thought darkly. _It was about time the press proved they had a use besides getting in his way._

"Sherlock…"

Mrs. Hudson stood to his side, looking at him with those helpless, worried eyes. "She's scared."

"Well, that's bloody obvious." He turned away from the woman, not wanting to be distracted by her desire for attention just now.

"So are you, my boy."

He crossed his arms behind his back and breathed deeply. Annoying. He didn't have time for her buzzing in his ear. "I don't have time for your ramblings just now. I am a _bit_ preoccupied," he sarcastically ground out through clenched teeth.

"Stop it, Sherlock. You just stop it." The firmness of her voice - the authority it held - surprised him and Sherlock cocked his head toward her. It wasn't often that the older woman spoke to him as anything other than his landlady or his housekeeper these days. "John told me about that girl," Mrs. Hudson was saying. "I know she's important to you: I suppose, since the first time I saw you apologize to her for being a berk, that I've known she's important to you. So you need to take care of her… Not just protect her, but _take care_ of her."

Sherlock opened his mouth to point out that that's why he was doing, damn it, but Mrs. Hudson spoke over him with nary a pause. "I understand that's difficult for you but try, Sherlock. For her sake, just try. It's not enough to keep her in one piece, not when you're a couple. You have to take care of each other's heart too. You take care of hers and she takes care of yours, that's the way it works for us normal ones." And she smiled sweetly; Before he could object to being called normal she stepped forward and patted his arm. "So you let me know what I can do to help. I have every faith in you my boy." Her grin widened. "Besides, I'm overdue for another adventure."

And with a wink, Martha Hudson slipped back downstairs and left her tenant in a state of mild shock. Molly was apparently now under her guardianship. And his. _His._ He was responsible for a person other than himself, which could bode no well. Quite a little pack Molly had inadvertently created for herself.

_And best to tread lightly around its mother lion,_ he mused.

Sherlock turned back toward the window at the thought, and as he did his phone rang. He stepped to the desk, picked it up and saw 'Lestrade' on the display. _Annoying._ He rolled his eyes, wondering what case DI Lestrade might have found to waste Sherlock's time today. Sherlock swiped the phone.

"I don't have time today, Detective Inspector."

"Sherlock, get to the address I'm texting you. Immediately."

"I said..." Sherlock huffed.

"Kitty Riley's been attacked."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Go on."

"The poor woman was worked over. There was a note…" Sherlock heard the man's slow intake of breath - steadying himself. "...stapled to her chest. Into the _skin_." Greg paused and Sherlock felt the blood rushing through his ears with anticipation. He closed his eyes, knowing the note was from him. Knowing this was one more step towards Molly.

"Say it, Lestrade." The word was clipped. Sharp.

"The note said, 'Leave my Molly alone,'" Lestrade muttered.

A beat.

"Donovan says feel free to start swearing now."

~oOo~


	10. Hitting the Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in this chapter. Real life the last two months has not left much time for writing. Thank you for your Kudos and comments, they are greatly appreciated.
> 
> My thanks to Hobbitsdoitbetter for her fantastic beta. She's got a story right now, Little Goldfish, so please make sure to give that one a read as well.

~oOo~

Molly sat in the corner of the front room, just behind the window curtain - her legs crossed in front of her - watching the paparazzi in the street below. Sherlock had left abruptly just over two hours ago, telling Molly only that something urgent had taken place and, for her safety, she needed to remain here and out of sight.

" _For God's sake, Molly, don't go near the damn window."_ , he'd said. His jaw had been set tight and eyes focused anywhere but on her. A shiver crawled its way up her spine. He'd been calm - oh, so very calm and Sherlock-like with his clipped words and firm orders to James. But there was a fury simmering just below the surface of his eyes. Something _had_ happened - something Sherlock thought needed to be kept from her. Her first instinct had been to scold him, raise her voice and cross her arms to tell him he was a stubborn prat for thinking he was protecting her from the truth. As much as she did relish Sherlock's new found attention towards her, she'd spent two years without him and didn't want him to think he always had to come to her rescue.

But it had not been the time to assert her independence - one look at Sherlock's face told her that. So, she'd smiled, nodded, told him she would stay away from the windows and then kissed him on the cheek.

The anger had melted from his face immediately after her lips touched his skin. Sherlock had put his hand on her cheek and told her everything would be alright ( _poor liar, he was_ ) and that he would call her as soon as he could. Molly had watched as he swept out the door with his coat and scarf, glancing back to her to offer one weak smile before he disappeared.

She sighed and peered surreptitiously out the window (never was one to play by the rules.) The larger group from earlier in the morning had now dwindled to just a few photographers. Apparently, Molly Hooper was less interesting than other genuine celebrities in London -

For that, she was thankful.

Molly maneuvered her way from the window, stood up and walked to the kitchen. She hadn't eaten much of anything earlier and now her stomach was beginning to protest. James had been stationed outside the door all morning - the least she could do was make the poor man something to eat. After all, with Lord Sherlock's commands issued, it wasn't likely that either of them would be leaving Baker Street in the near future.

She no sooner pulled two plates from the cupboard, (thank goodness for Mrs. Hudson and her constant need to tidy up) than she heard James' deep voice in the other room.

"Miss Hooper?"

Molly emerged from the kitchen to see James standing just in front of another man. He was just shorter than James, with dark hair and a solid, reasonably muscular build. A dark jacket, blue shirt and red tie highlighted the paleness of his skin. He was holding a hat in his left hand as he smiled and nodded in Molly's direction.

"This is Detective Sergeant Moore. He says he needs you to come down to the station to help with Mr. Holmes' investigation." James' expression was as unreadable as always. "I called to the station and verified his credentials."

Molly nodded and smiled at James - thorough, stalwart muscled James. She was grateful for his consistent presence.

Sergeant Moore - Molly guessed him to be in his early thirties - stepped forward and extended his hand, "Miss Hooper." She reciprocated and shook his hand - strong, firm - maybe too firm. "Please, call me Colin. Hate to disturb you but I was told to escort you to the Yard directly."

Molly's brow furrowed in confusion. "But, Sherlock hasn't called…"

"Yeah," Moore interjected, "he's quite deep in this one. Detective Inspector Lestrade wanted you there to help."

"Me? I've never helped before."

"Well, this does involve the...pardon my saying...blighter following you." His voice dipped low at the last part - as if he was afraid that someone might be listening.

Molly looked to James who only raised an eyebrow in response. "Sherlock asked that I stay here...the photographers are all outside."

"Oh I handled them, Miss Hooper. Told those arseholes they'd better sod off," He paused and looked toward the ground briefly, obviously embarrassed by his rough language. "Pardon me. I just don't have much patience for that lot. Anyway, they're gone and I made sure to bring a car with darkened windows, like Mr. Holmes asked."

A whisper of unease settled in her chest. "Maybe I should call Sherlock just in case." She began to move towards the side table that held her phone only to be interrupted by the Sergeant.

"You're welcome to, Miss, but right after he gave me my instructions, he told me to 'Bugger off and let me work'. He didn't seem open to many interruptions."

Molly nodded. When Sherlock was working a case he didn't suffer too many questions. Molly certainly didn't want to interrupt him when he could be finding the key to ending this nightmare. And it was broad daylight, James was with her and he had verified this man was a police officer. _Stop cringing at shadows, Hooper_ \- she scolded herself.

"Alright, then. Let me just get my handbag."

She moved quickly, replacing the plates back in the cupboard, then gathering her handbag and phone. When she finished, Sergeant Moore and James stepped out first while Molly shut and locked the door. They descended the stairs and, once they reached the front door, the detective put on his hat and peered outside. He looked over his shoulder at Molly and James, nodding that the street was clear.

The three of them made their way quickly to the dark car parked just outside Baker Street. Sergeant Moore opened the door for Molly and James walked around and climbed into the passenger seat. The detective took his seat and started the car.

"Right, then. Should be there shortly." He paused briefly and shook his head. "Bugger...I almost forgot."

Molly could see the outline of his shoulders from behind and James looked to the side to see what the man might be doing. As soon as Molly saw James' eyes go wide and his hands dart out toward Colin Moore, Molly knew she was in trouble. There was a hiss of sound and then James' body suddenly seized up. _Stun gun. Get out, Molly. Run._ She frantically tried to open the door only to realize that there were no door handles in the back of a police car.

She had to go on the offensive. Molly lunged forward and struck out her hands towards Moore's face - _the eyes, take out his eyes_ , her inner voice prodded. She managed to connect with his cheek, shoving her fingers forcefully towards his open eyes. His yelp of pain told her she'd struck her mark. _You're not taking me, you bastard_. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Molly frantically tried to work her way through the open partition into the front seat - continuing to punch and hit as much as she could. Her task was difficult - James' unconscious body remained in the passenger seat and finding enough room to crawl in between the two men while keeping Moore at bay was proving more complicated than she'd thought.

_The gun._ Molly spotted the weapon on the seat and grabbed it firmly. She set her jaw, jammed the gun into Moore's side and pulled the trigger.

Nothing. _No. No, no, no_ ….Molly's heart hammered with panic. She glanced down and saw the conductive wires of the police issued taser gun running to James' side - the gun wouldn't work again until it was reset. Molly didn't have enough time to curse herself for her miscalculation. She dropped the useless weapon and, once again, launched her arm at Moore's face, only to have his large hand wrap around her wrist. She whipped her head to the side and looked directly into his face - he was smiling. Her entire world came to a halt.

"Molly, my angel, there's no need for all that. Don't you know I'm here to take care of you?"

She saw the flash of the needle just before a sharp pain radiated throughout her forearm. Molly tried to wrestle free - once again reaching toward the man's eyes but he grabbed her wrist and wrenched it back. Molly yelped and Moore shoved her back through the partition into the back seat. The drug was potent and in only seconds, Molly was struggling to remain conscious. Through the fog, Molly saw her attacker open the door and push James outside. _Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead_ , her panicked inner voice whispered. The detective then reached into the back seat, grabbed her purse and flung it out the window before taking one more opportunity to regard her in the backseat. The bastard was watching to make sure she lost consciousness.

Colin Moore's smile was the last thing she saw before she descended into the darkness.

~oOo~

Sherlock cursed to himself. The amount of time it had taken him to work through the crime scene was bloody embarrassing. Clues were always so easy to find for him - stupid mistakes, obvious plans by the perpetrator - the story usually unfolded itself as easily as a bird spreads its wings. Perhaps his attachment to Molly had become his Achilles Heel - his blind spot. Where he should be seeing obvious patterns and a solid conclusion to this mysterious attacker, he felt as if he were standing just outside of himself, grasping at wisps of information that slipped uselessly through his fingers.

It was really rather annoying.

Sherlock stood in one corner of the hospital waiting room while Lestrade held up the wall on the opposite corner. They'd come here immediately after Sherlock finished examining Kitty's apartment - hoping to speak to the woman as soon as possible. Unfortunately, her injuries had been severe enough to warrant several tests in order to determine the possibility of any brain damage - thus, the two detectives (consulting and official) remained on standby. Sherlock glanced in his friend's direction - his body language practically screaming 'Why haven't you cracked this yet, you bloody moron?'

As if Holmes hadn't cursed himself enough already for - well, everything.

Lestrade pushed himself away from the wall and Sherlock's attention was drawn to the doctor walking down the hall in their direction. Short, stocky and obviously stressed (lines around his mouth and yellowing of the hair indicates at least two packs smoked per day; chews his nails to the quick), the physician stopped in the middle of the room and crossed his arms.

"She's awake. You can speak with her now." Sherlock needed no other invitation, but as he moved to exit, the doctor spoke again, his finger pointed directly up at his face. _Careful, Doctor, I might break it off your hand_ , Sherlock thought to himself. " _However_ , you're allowed no more than five minutes. She's been through a trauma and needs to rest."

"I'll only need two." Sherlock huffed as he stalked down the hallway, turned the corner and entered Kitty Riley's room with Greg directly behind. Holmes stopped, his chest tight and hands clenched at his side.

Sherlock was quite used to seeing people bruised, bloodied...dead. He'd never been one to shy away from violence or its result. But this…. The man who did this had _enjoyed_ what he'd done. Kitty's face was bandaged, her lips swollen. One of her eyes was bruised shut and identical scars ran along her cheek-bones, slashing upwards to scar her temples and downwards to bisect her chin. Sherlock shook his head in disgust: Her attacker had specifically gone for those elements of a woman's face which would be most noticeable, most striking, almost as if…

Almost as if the very femininity of Reilly was what had enraged him.

And if this was how he reacted specifically to a _woman_ who had angered him…again Sherlock shook his head, picturing the scenario. It could be his Molly lying on that bed, bandaged and sedated. His Molly tortured at the hands of a sadistic bastard who professed to love her. His Molly, cut and slashed and torn. Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, wanting more than anything to hear Molly's voice in this moment. Assure himself she was safe. Sherlock looked to his side and saw Lestrade's confused stare - his eyes darting from Sherlock to Kitty and back again in the unspoken, 'Talk to her, you git.'

Sherlock cleared his throat and saw Kitty's swollen eyes open slightly. Her brow furrowed as she looked from man to man, before settling her gaze on Sherlock.

"Miss Reilly, did you know the man who attacked you?"

She took a breath, closed her eyes and moved her head slowly to the side as she managed to whisper, "No."

"But you allowed him into your apartment." Sherlock's tone was somewhere between accusation and wonder - Lestrade noticed, he could tell by the look on the policeman's face.

At his words, Reilly glared, some of her old vinegar returning; she moved her hands and slowly, meticulously, flipped Sherlock the finger. Despite Sherlock's annoyance, Lestrade took a step closer as if he intended to act as a physical barrier between an overly tense Sherlock Holmes and the woman who held the key to this mystery.

"Is there a reason you opened the door, Miss Reilly?" Lestrade's tone was decidedly more calming.

"Police." She rasped.

Sherlock and Lestrade's eyes snapped to each other immediately.

"He was in uniform?" Sherlock asked.

Again, her head moved in the negative. "No. Detective. Said his name was Moore."

Lestrade was out the door and on his phone as soon as the name escaped Kitty's lips. Sherlock pressed. "What did he say he wanted?"

"Had information for me. Said it was about you."

"Was he one of your informants?"

"No. Never seen him. Showed me his badge." Sherlock could tell the sedative was taking hold again, but she was fighting her way through. "Came in. Talked. Seemed nice. Then he got angry. Told me the paper had to stop writing about Molly. Leave her alone."

She paused, her eyes drifted shut and Sherlock was very close to shaking her awake before Lestrade stepped back in the room. Kitty's eyes opened once more. "Hit me. Don't remember after…"

Lestrade interrupted. "It's alright, Miss Reilly. You rest now. We'll catch the bastard."

Greg tilted his head towards the door and made his exit - Sherlock following close behind. The two men stopped in the hallway, facing each other. Lestrade held up his phone. "I just talked to my office. Colin Moore is assigned to the narcotics division. He's been on a deep undercover assignment for the last ten days." The puzzle pieces dropped into place.

"He stole Moore's credentials." Sherlock's throat suddenly felt raw and panic bloomed fresh in his chest. Access to the body. The morgue. _Molly._ He pulled the phone back out from his pocket, found Molly's number and pressed Send. Each unanswered ring amplified the hammering of his heart. When her voicemail picked up, it was all he could do not to throw his phone into the wall in frustration. He'd left her. Again. His stupidity and arrogance had convinced him that he would have the case solved in two hours and be back in time for lunch. Molly would be safe and he could pat himself on the back for another job well done.

_Your little church mouse will pay the price for your inflated ego_ , a voice that sounded exactly like his brother's whispered in his head.

He was about to turn and get himself to Baker Street when Lestrade's phone rang. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turned and watched as his friend's face morphed from concern to realization to anger in the span of thirty seconds. "Find the fucking bastard, Donovan. Find. Him."

Sherlock had heard Greg Lestrade angry before - it had never really registered with him before. After all, so many people became upset with Sherlock in his lifetime that it was one of those things he chose to delete.

This moment, however, would remain firm in Sherlock's memory for quite some time.

"He took her, Sherlock. Used a taser on the bodyguard and left him in the street." Lestrade ran his hand through his hair. "The only break we have is that your brother's man is a tough son of a bitch. Managed to get himself turned to see the license plate. And he's already giving a description to my team."

Sherlock set his jaw and made his way purposefully down the hallway. He - no, _they_...Lestrade, Donovan, Mycroft, John, Mary and whoever else he had to drag into finding this soon-to-be dead bastard - they would get Molly back. They would get her back and Sherlock would make certain Colin Moore's impersonator would understand - in ways that would make him writhe in pain - just what a mistake he'd made in even touching his Molly.

~oOo~


	11. Hide and Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, commenting and submitting Kudos for this story. It means a lot.
> 
> Many thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her continued beta work. She's the best!

~oOo~

Molly's eyes were heavy and her mind clouded. She attempted to lift her eyelids but found that she could only wrench them open briefly before they fell shut again. She was in a car. The policeman's car. Panic swelled in her chest at the memory. She tried to push through the fog of whatever drugs Moore had given her, but the grogginess swept through her head afresh.

Molly knew she only had a few moments before she succumbed to the drugs and slipped back into unconsciousness…she drifted out again anyway.

Once more she fought to open her eyes and her body allowed a brief glimpse of her surroundings before her lids drifted shut. They weren't in the police car any longer. She shifted and realized her hands had been restrained behind her back. A fresh wave of fear caused her face to flush and eyes moisten with tears.

 _Wake up, Molly. You have to fight._ Her inner voice - sounding suspiciously like Sherlock - commanded her attention. Now was not the time to be a victim. She was Strong Molly. And Strong Molly could take care of herself.

She remained as motionless as possible, willing herself not to give in to the sleep that loomed so closely. One moment. It's all she would need. One moment to get an upper hand and get help.

The car slowed and Molly felt the crunch of gravel under the tires. Her body stiffened as she waited. Hoping. Praying that she would find the right opening to set herself free.

She heard the sound of the door and felt a cool breeze on her face. It was only then did she smell the stale odor of the car in which she rode. His car. Molly shuddered.

"Molly, sweetheart, I know you're awake."

 _Don't talk. Don't talk, Molly._ The Sherlock-voice whispered.

"It's not time yet. You're going back to sleep until we get home." His emphasis on the word 'home' made the panic bloom afresh in Molly's stomach. He placed his hand on her arm - stroking her bare skin gently. He leaned into her personal space, his breath upon her skin.

 _Now_ , the voice demanded. She lifted up on her shoulder, hoping to connect with his face but the drugs had made her slower than she'd anticipated. Moore slammed her back down on the car seat and she felt the sharp sting of a needle plunged into her arm. Felt her breath thinning as Moore's hand transferred from her arm to press against her throat, holding her down as he shushed her. Crooned to her. Her skin crawled.

"Oh, love, you don't have to fight me. I'm here to protect you, my Molly."

His words cut through the descending oblivion. My Molly. _No._ She was Sherlock's Molly, not his. She wouldn't...she didn't want- _Sherlock,_ she thought slightly desperately, _Sherlock, please… I want to go home…_

Molly's silent plea to the man she loved and trusted above all else ended abruptly as she succumbed to the potent liquid.

~oOo~

The man who'd stolen Colin Moore's identity stood outside the car and looked down at Molly's sleeping form. She truly was beautiful - his sweet angel. _Thank God he'd gotten to her before Holmes had a chance to sully her further._ He stroked her face gently, eager to continue the drive and get Molly to their new home. Once she settled in, she would realize he'd only taken her to protect her from Sherlock Holmes. She'd realize that he was the one she deserved, not that, that self-involved bastard…

"Happily ever after, Molly. That's what we'll have." He closed the door, climbed back in behind the wheel, and smiled.

"Happily ever after." He whispered to himself.

~oOo~

Anger hung differently on Sherlock Holmes. If anyone were to glance inside the taxi in which Sherlock rode, they would have seen someone calm and relaxed - hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed, face composed. The storm - the thundering, explosive storm - churned deep within his body. It focused him. Fed him as much as Frankenstein's monster fed off the electricity that had given it life and forced it into a world that was not prepared for the full brunt of the creature's wrath.

In this moment, Sherlock Holmes felt much like that fictional monster - prepared to unleash all manner of hell upon the man who had stolen away what was most precious to him. There would be nowhere he could hide - no place on Earth that would be safe for him as long as he had Molly Hooper. And when Sherlock found Molly...and the faux Colin Moore...nothing would stand in the way of making him suffer for what he'd done to her.

The taxi stopped in front of Baker Street just as Sherlock's mind began to invent new and different ways to torture Molly's kidnapper. His teeth ground together as he exited the vehicle, seeing the empty street, knowing that just a short time earlier, Molly had been spirited away by a man Sherlock had underestimated. That fact, as much as anything else, soured his gut; made Sherlock furious at his own incompetence and inability to safeguard the one person who mattered most.

Sherlock flung open the front door and stomped up the stairs, his mind working furiously through the next steps to sort out the kidnapper's real identity and find his Molly. The flat looked like a war room; John worked on the computer, Mary talked on the phone and James sat on the couch next to a police officer whose right hand sketched furiously on a large drawing pad.

As Sherlock took a step into the room, the group stopped immediately and regarded him seriously. None would dare to speak first, that was certain. John and Mary were all too familiar with The Moods of Sherlock Holmes and they understood that he needed to be the one in charge of the situation. He paused for a moment before stepping toward James. The bodyguard shot to his feet and looked Sherlock directly in the eye. Frustration and disgrace hung heavily on his face - the twitch of his lips and tightening of his fists told Sherlock that he would not be the only person seeking out revenge on Colin Moore when all was said and done.

"Tell me." Sherlock spoke to James.

"I verified him, sir. Called the station and they confirmed his number. I should have pressed for more. I should have…" James shook his head and looked to the right as he began to give in to his anger.

"The facts, James. We'll have time to flog ourselves for underestimating the bastard later."

The large man nodded his shaved head up and down and recounted everything that happened until he was rendered unconscious. Sherlock's mind filed and processed all the relevant data as he shifted backwards and paced back and forth slowly in the room. He closed his eyes, working through all the data he'd collected from the moment this nightmare had begun in the morgue. Sherlock took a breath in and released it carefully - centering his mind and opening himself to see the solution.

From what Sherlock could piece together, the facts appeared to be these: Moore had been watching Molly for some time. But when he took the opportunity to lift the police credentials, he became more brazen about making his intentions toward Molly known. Then came the picture in the newspaper. It upset him. Made him reactionary. The attack on Kitty may have been an outlet for his anger but it also served as a setup to get Sherlock out of the flat. Coming for Molly here hadn't been his original plan, but he was desperate. Desperate and sloppy. He wanted Molly away from Sherlock. Wanted it badly enough to risk confronting a professional bodyguard and having his picture taken by a photographer. Sherlock stopped mid stride, opened his eyes and inched the side of his mouth upward in a menacing grimace.

_I'll have you by morning, you bastard._

"This whole operation was slapdash at best." His sudden speech made both Mary and John jump. "He's no professional kidnapper, just some bloke who thinks he's entitled to waltz off with my pathologist. And he's made some serious miscalculations."

Sherlock pivoted and directed his attention to John. "Call Lestrade. He's undoubtedly already speaking with Moore's associates and friends. Make sure he's thorough. One of them let slip where he was - sometime within the last 5 days. Our impersonator most likely stole the credentials only within that time period. Spiriting Molly off to parts unknown was just his dream - his failsafe. He's probably known to Colin Moore and his circle of compatriots - or, at least, he frequents places they go. Find out everything you can about our burglar."

"I'm on it." John picked up his mobile immediately.

"Now we just need to identify him." Sherlock now turned his attention to James. "You got a good look at him, I assume?"

James nodded. "I can remember every detail of that blighter's face, sir."

 _Of course you can. You remember it because you want to dismantle the man's facial structure with your knuckles,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

He knew exactly how the muscled bodyguard felt.

"Good. Very good." Sherlock waved his hand in the direction of the as-yet-unnamed police officer. "Continue. And make sure it's as accurate as possible. This face is going to be everywhere within the next hour." _And splattered all over the pavement when I get through with it_ , Sherlock grimaced.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. He sent a brief text to one of his homeless network contacts - _Should have done so two days ago, stupid git_ , Sherlock berated himself silently. His fingers flew across the screen before hitting 'send'. Sherlock's surreptitious army would work as efficiently as any resources Mycroft had at his disposal.

Unfortunately for Sherlock though, he knew he needed those resources to find his Molly.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock composed his second text to his older brother, knowing full well that Mycroft Holmes was somewhere, staring at his phone waiting for Sherlock to ask for help. _Self-righteous prig_ , Sherlock mused.

_Have you found the car. SH_

Not fifteen seconds later, a reply.

_The car is being examined as we speak. MH_

_I need a name. SH_

_Won't do you any good. Car was stolen. MH_

Sherlock cursed under his breath. He didn't need another bloody obstacle.

_Give me something useful, Mycroft. SH_

_My people are tracing public surveillance footage of this garage. We'll find the real car soon enough. Stop acting like a worrisome old crone. The simple little pocket mouse will be located and you can place her safely back in her cage. MH_

There were times that Sherlock had a genuine regard for his brother. Mycroft was brilliant - possibly as brilliant than Sherlock himself, although the younger Holmes would never voice such a statement aloud. However, those moments of familial regard were fleeting - Sherlock's feelings toward his sibling generally remained in the category of loathing. Frankly, it was safe to say that Sherlock had never hated Mycroft Holmes as much as he did in this moment. Whether it was for his comment about Molly or the obvious disregard for the seriousness of the situation, it didn't matter. If Mycroft had been standing in the room, Sherlock would have laid his brother out.

Sherlock shut off his phone - barely restraining himself from hurling it against the wall - and crossed over to the window. After all this was over, and Molly returned safely to him, Sherlock would have a chat with his brother. A chat about appropriate ways to speak about newcomers to the family. A chat about Sherlock's fist and Mycroft's face, and how the two might start regularly interconnecting unless Brother Dearest improved his manners.

It would be an enjoyable chat.

Movement flashed in Sherlock's peripheral vision and he turned his head to look down at a lone figure making his way across the street. The man quickly disappeared out of sight and only a second later, Sherlock heard the sound of the front buzzer.

Sherlock raced down the stairs (James' heavy footfalls echoing behind), flung open the door, and was met with the startled face of a young man in his early twenties. He appeared clean, wearing well worn shoes and a jacket with a large bag slung over his shoulder.

The sort of bag belonging to a photographer.

The young man extended his arm and raised his hand up level with Sherlock's waist. He gripped a plain, black flash drive between his thumb and forefinger. A small flick of his wrist indicated that the man wanted Sherlock to take the device.

"You'll be needing this, Mr. Holmes. I got pictures. They're not great, but they'll give you a shot at the bloke's face, that's for sure." The photographer's voice was soft - almost boyish - with a distinct Irish lilt.

Sherlock snatched the device from his hand and tilted his head as he spoke. "I assume you'll be wanting some sort of compensation?"

The photographer took a step back and moved his head from side to side. "No, sir." He thrust his hands in his coat pockets. "I just wanted you to get her back. We may follow and take pictures to make our money, but I couldn't live with myself if Miss Hooper got hurt and there was something I could do to help."

He smiled gently, then turned away to make his way up the street, adjusting the large bag on his shoulder as he walked. Sherlock stepped down to the street and in only a few, long legged strides, he was directly behind the young man.

"What's your name?"

The young Irishman stopped and pivoted on his foot to look back at Sherlock.

"Neil. Neil Ryan."

Sherlock extended his hand. "Thank you, Neil. Thank you very much."

Neil accepted the handshake and smiled - his boyishness much more evident to Sherlock now.

"When all this is settled, I _may_ be persuaded to give you an exclusive interview."

The smile on Neil's face spread into an ecstatic grin. "Thank _you_ , Mr. Holmes." He dropped his hand and stepped away once again. "But you get her back first, yeah? That's what matters." He dipped his head to say goodbye, turned once again and walked up the street.

Sherlock looked down at his palm and the small device that could hold the key to getting Molly back. He wanted to see the face of the man who dared to steal her away from him. His fist clamped shut and he turned on his heel to head back to his flat. He caught James' eye as he ascended the stoop. The rage held in the bodyguard's eyes mirrored his own.

"Let's see the face of the man we're about to make wish he was never born, James."

The two men disappeared into Baker Street, the slamming of the front door echoing through the neighborhood.


	12. Wishes Aren't Horses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continued thank you to hobbitsdoitbetter for her fantastic support and help with this chapter. She's amazing. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading, giving kudos and leaving comments. It's greatly appreciated.

~oOo~

A sharp peal of thunder jolted Molly from her sleep. She opened her heavy eyelids, pushing through the haze of lingering medication. She remained still, her eyes blinking away the drowsiness for a few moments while she pushed herself back to consciousness. When she felt confident about moving, Molly sat up slowly. As much as she wanted to move quickly, the dizziness in her head and uneasy stomach made that difficult. She ran through all the possible drugs he might have used to incapacitate her and knew that most of the after effects would restrict any significant physical activity for at least an hour or more.

Questions flooded her mind. Where was she? What did he have planned? _Oh, God...did he…._ for a moment, Molly couldn't breathe - the thought that her kidnapper might have assaulted her made panic bloom fresh in her chest. She took a quick inventory - her clothes remained the same and, despite the nagging grogginess of the drugs, her...body didn't feel any different. She closed her eyes and sighed in relief.

After a moment, she opened her eyes again and surveyed the room. She needed to work the facts, as Sherlock so often reminded her.

She was in a bedroom - simple, clean and sparsely decorated. A bed, night-table and chest of drawers comprised the furniture and two brightly colored prints of flowers adorned the walls. A large vase with fresh flowers sat atop the night-table. Acid bubbled in Molly's stomach at the idea that he might have put them there as a welcoming gesture. She turned and saw that a plastic cup had been placed beside the flowers. Molly picked it up and smelled the contents - water. Despite her thirst, Molly was hesitant to take anything that might be drugged.

She set the water aside.

Her eyes slid upon the small window in the corner of the room. She scooted herself off the bed and stumbled to the opening, the shakiness of her legs and heaviness in her head a reminder of her vulnerability. She pulled back the plain tan curtain that covered the glass. Hope sank like lead in her chest. The room was on the second floor and nothing but trees lay beyond the house. Getting out the window and dropping to the ground might be... manageable, but the woods - and not having any bloody clue as to where she was - would make a successful escape unlikely.

The full reality of her situation descended upon Molly in that moment. That anxiety she always felt when she was upset or stressed began to blossom in her belly, tying it into knots. Her pulse thudded and shook, her chest and throat tightening - she could feel the pinch of tears stinging her eyes as the anxiety grew and grew. _Breathing would, she knew, become a problem if it continued, and from there it was just a matter of time before she passed out._ She closed her eyes, tried to focus on calming herself but it was nearly impossible. The methods she'd always used before were falling short. She was stuck. She was _trapped._ She was going to die in some slow, agonising, twisted way and there was nothing she could do about it...

 _Stop it. Don't be stupid, Hooper._ She heard Sherlock's voice clearly.

_Stay calm and do try to work with the facts, rather than hysteria. There's a good woman._

Molly blinked - she could almost swear he was with her. God, she wished he was. How she wished she'd never stepped foot outside Sherlock's flat that morning.

 _Well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride_ , Sherlock's voice growled tartly. Her father used to say that, and at the thought of the two men she loved so dearly, the anxiety finally relented.

She would be alright. She would make sure of it.

She had Sherlock bloody Holmes to go back to, and no minor psychopathic killer was going to keep them apart.

Slowly, Molly closed her eyes. _Breathe in. Breathe out_. _That's all you have to do right now._ She let the thought of Sherlock calm her, focused on recounting every detail of his face, telling herself that she would see that sharp jaw and furrowed brow soon. He would kiss her in that precise, particular way he had and everything would be alright. Her eyes opened and, while the rawness of being trapped and alone bubbled just below the surface, Strong Molly's determination was set.

She was getting out of here.

She stepped back from the window and made her way to the door. Gently, she tried the knob and was both relieved and concerned to find it move easily in her grip. She pulled the door open - pausing instantly when the hinge emitted a low creak. Not hearing any noise in response though, Molly stepped into the hallway, glad to realize that her socks muffled her footsteps.

She looked to her right; the small hallway ended with a door slightly ajar -illumination spilled through it from the other side. A second door stood open and she could see the outline of the hand basin clearly in the soft light.

 _Well, at least I know where the toilet is,_ she thought sarcastically.

Molly glanced to her left and saw that the hallway gave way to stairs. She tiptoed forward but spied nobody at the bottom of them: The house may have been a two story, but it was still relatively small, and with any luck the distance between those stairs and the front door wouldn't be long. She might be able to maneuver her way through the house without attracting her kidnapper's notice and get herself the hell away from this place - woods or no woods.

And if he caught her? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

She crept soundlessly forward, ignoring the heavy feeling in her legs and feet - hoping that the drugs he'd given her would wear off soon. Her head still felt a bit muffled and out of sorts, but there didn't seem to be anything wrong with her senses. She climbed down one flight of stairs, crept forward across the landing and made her way down the other. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she peeked around the corner of the wall. The next room was a small kitchen. Again, well kept and clean despite the obviously dated style and decor. Molly stopped and listened, waiting for any telltale sign that _he_ was about. Once she was satisfied of being alone, she walked gingerly into the room and snuck through, opened a door to her right.

She looked through _that_ and her heart leapt at seeing a hallway and, at the end, the front door.

Quickly scanning her surroundings, she saw no sign of keys, or any other indication of 'Colin's' presence in the small cottage. She made forward, focused only on reaching the front door. Molly placed her hand gently on the brass door knob and felt it give way as her wrist turned. She stopped and listened again. The only sound she could hear was her heart, slamming so hard inside her chest that she was sure it reverberated through the house.

Slowly, she pulled at the door and offered up a silent thank you that the hinges were quiet. She stepped through the threshold and just as Molly began to plot her next move, a high pitched, pulsing alarm began to sound. She spun around to see Colin Moore standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding what looked to be a phone in his hand.

He stood tall and still, a gentle smile playing at the corner of his mouth. In another setting - not one where she'd been kidnapped and held against her will - she might actually deem the man handsome. When he'd come to the flat earlier, he'd seemed genuinely shy and sweet. But just like Moriarty, his winsome features only served to make him even more sinister now.

Instinct told her to flee. Run as fast as she could to get away. But, logically, she knew the drug he'd injected her with earlier still made her sluggish and there was no way she could hope to outrun a man as large as him. She glanced quickly around the room for anything she could grab to defend herself. Her eyes settled on a small lamp on a table just inside the door - she grabbed it, yanking the cord from the power outlet with a harsh pop.

The man pretending to be Moore took a step toward her while he held up the device emitting that ear piercing alarm. He took a quick glance at the rectangular gadget, and pressed a button on the front. Moore slipped it into his pocket, then held out his hands to Molly.

"Molly...you don't have to worry. I brought you here to keep safe. I took the liberty of attaching a small bracelet to your ankle."

 _Ankle._ She looked down and pulled at her trouser leg to reveal her right ankle. No wonder it had felt heavy. The weight wasn't the drugs, but a small monitoring device. The kind used for people under house arrest. She couldn't leave the house without triggering the alarm.

She was trapped like a rat in a cage.

Her resolve shook for a moment and Molly felt herself sway to the side, grabbing the door frame to steady herself while her eyes flooded with warmth again. She pushed down the fear threatening to overwhelm her body though and channeled it to anger. She stood up straighter and gripped the lamp - her only defense - in her hand.

"What do you _want_?"

He had the gall to appear surprised by her question - brow furrowed and eyes genuinely questioning. "What do _I_ want? I just want you safe. Safe and away from _him_."

"Sherlock? You think I'm in danger from _Sherlock Holmes_?"

Concern fell over his face now. "Well, course you are, Molly. You see what the press says about you - how they treat you. That's his fault. And it's only a matter of time before someone comes for you to get to him. I won't let that happen."

The fear dissipated slightly, anger beginning to outweigh it. It felt better. Stronger.

" _Sherlock_ didn't kidnap me," she snapped. " _Sherlock_ didn't drug me or steal into my flat and take things from me. _You_ did that." Molly took a step forward, still holding the lamp in front of her.

"You will let me go this instant."

The man shook his head from side to side and smiled again. "My sweet Molly…"

" _Don't_ you call me that. I am _not_ your Molly." She spat through clenched teeth.

He at least had the presence of mind to know that she was well and truly angry. He lifted up his hands as if in surrender. "Please, Molly. I just want what's best for you. You don't see it now because you're under the spell of that arrogant blighter."

"You've no right to keep me here."

"This is your home now." His hands spread wide - a twisted gesture of showing off the home that he expected Molly to accept as if this was her fondest wish. He stepped closer to her now - close enough for Molly to try and make her escape.

Molly swung the lamp at his head - barely missing his temple. He grabbed her hand and turned her body around so that her back was flush with his chest. The feel of his body so close to hers made her blood run cold. She struggled but he was strong, his arms gripping tighter. He lifted her clear off her feet and dragged her to the couch, kicking and screaming all the way. He moved himself backwards, Molly still in his lap, kicking and writhing her body in a vain attempt to break free. The arm he had around her waist tightened though, his other arm snaking up between her breasts as one thin, strong hand wrapped around her throat and began to squeeze. He kept crooning soft, nonsense things in her ear, almost as if she were a child or an animal that needed to be comforted, the heat of his breath sickening, the feel of his body against hers obscene.

 _No,_ Molly kept thinking. _No, no, no, no. no,_ _ **NO**_ _!_

"It's alright, darling," he murmured. "I have you now. There's no need to fret, angel, I'm right here…I'm going to make everything alright…"

The lack of oxygen was starting to effect Molly; despite her best attempts, she could feel herself weakening. As her struggles grew fainter Colin leaned to the side, grabbing her wrist. Stretching her body out against him, forcing her arm down over the sofa and towards the floor though the angle was uncomfortable. She struggled but it was no use; she was no match for someone his size, not in her current state. And besides, he wasn't tiring. He didn't seem to be weakening at all. She felt something clamp over her wrist and glanced over to see a padded handcuff firmly encasing her arm - a split second later she heard a click, tried to pull free but found that she couldn't. He'd handcuffed her to...to something from which she couldn't pull away. Something which had no give. Molly couldn't see what.

And then all was darkness. Once again she was helpless.

Her last conscious thought that she really was a prisoner now.

~oOo~

Three hours. To be precise, three hours, forty nine minutes and - he glanced at his watch - 48 seconds since the phone call from Donovan. So far, nearly three of those almost four hours had been waiting for Mycroft's vast network to work through the photographs -shadowy and grainy as they were. Lestrade had texted just a few minutes ago that they'd tracked down the undercover Colin Moore and were in the process of intercepting the officer for questioning.

Sherlock paced. Paced and waited, the tension mounting with each minute that ticked by without a new lead. He bloody _hated_ the impotent feeling of waiting. Especially when his Molly was out there with a psychotic bastard who used dead bodies to send love notes.

Sherlock had known tension before. In the two years of his absence, there had been times - days - where he'd forgone sleep to focus on the job that needed to be done. He'd been tense...amped up at the anticipation of the next target and finishing the job that had taken him away from his life in London.

But back then, it was only his safety - his life - to be sacrificed. Putting himself on the line was easy - exhilarating even. This feeling was as far from exhilaration as he'd ever been. When Moriarty had threatened the people close to him, Sherlock had finally realized true fear...Dread at the prospect of John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade being tortured or killed because of him. But that feeling paled in comparison to the panic coiled low and tight in his stomach at the mere notion of someone harming Molly Hooper.

Kitty Riley's beaten face swam in view; As quickly as the memory flashed into his head, Kitty's face disappeared and was replaced with Molly's. Her sweet brown eyes, swollen and bloodied stared back at him. A growl erupted from his throat as he whirled around and plucked his revolver from the small desk. He thrust his hand forward and emptied a clip into the much abused wall.

John and Mary shouted simultaneously. "Sherlock!"

Holmes threw the emptied gun back on the desk and marched toward the door. Before he could grab his coat and scarf, he felt John's hand firmly around his forearm. Sherlock turned and looked down at his best friend - face blanched, eyes narrowed with concern.

"Sherlock, stop." The tone in John's voice remained just this side of commanding.

Sherlock glanced at John's hand, then back into his friend's eyes. The words 'bugger off' didn't need to be spoken - John was much more attuned to Sherlock than that. The doctor removed his hand from Sherlock's arm.

"I've been stopped all morning, John." He muttered through clenched teeth.

"We can't do anything until we hear from Lestrade or Mycroft. Running around London half arsed won't do Molly any good."

Sherlock pulled on his coat and began adjusting his scarf. "Nothing's doing Molly any _bloody_ good is it? I'm not going to sit here any longer while Molly's…" The words caught in his throat - he didn't want to give voice to the horrors in his mind- "While everyone else is doing my _bloody_ job."

"I get it Sherlock. If it was Mary out there, I'd be feeling the same way. But all we can do now is…"

Both men's eyes flew to the pocket of Sherlock's belstaff at the sound of his phone text alert. Sherlock dug furiously into his pocket and pulled out the phone. On the screen was a text from Mycroft.

Brother Dearest had found the bastard.

It was the kidnapper's real name, home address and work location. Charles Hawthorne. Not since Moriarty had Sherlock held a single man's name in such violent contempt.

_Working on possible places he could have taken your pocket mouse. My people are already on their way to his flat and office. Join the party won't you? MH_

Sherlock didn't bother responding. He gripped the phone tightly and regarded James before looking to John and Mary.

"Mycroft has been so kind as to finally give us this blighter's name and address. James, you and I will go to his flat and investigate there." The bodyguard got to his feet, immediately at the ready.

"John and Mary, you will go to his office and find out anything and everything about Charles Hawthorne." Sherlock practically spit the name from his mouth as if the syllables themselves were acid.

"I want my pathologist home by midnight: Is that clear?"

Sherlock didn't wait for any answer; Instead he pulled open the door and pounded down the stairs, he sound of his small cadre of reinforcements filling up the space as they followed after.

_The hounds of Hell are sniffing out your trail, Hawthorne._

_There is no where on Earth you can hide from me now._

~oOo~


	13. Two Can Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for the delay. Life is just too darn annoying! 
> 
> Thanks to my incredible beta, hobbitsdoitbetter - you are a never ending source of inspiration!

~oOo~

Barely twenty minutes after his brother's text message, Sherlock arrived at Charles Hawthorne's front door. He'd taken the three flights of stairs two at a time ( _barely winded, thank you_ ), but stopped suddenly in the doorway to Hawthorne's flat. James scarcely skidded to a halt just behind him, narrowly avoiding a slapstick-worthy collision.

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would stride into a crime scene and compile the data - the facts - as easily as a mathematician solves a simple equation. Mere minutes would pass before the solution was finalized and he arrogantly presented his findings to the detectives on the scene.

But these were not normal circumstances. (A _fantastic_ understatement.) Normal would mean that he'd prevented Hawthorne from coming anywhere near Molly. Normal would be that psychotic son of a bitch locked in a cell wearing a padded straitjacket. No, he was on the other side of the universe from normal - and since he'd proved of no value in protecting Molly up to this point, it was of vital importance (an even more fantastic understatement) that Sherlock Holmes pull his head out of his arse and do his damn job.

So Sherlock stood still, closed his eyes and slowly clasped his hands behind his back. He took a deep breath. _In through the nose. Out through the mouth._ He could not afford to be careless now. Correction: _Molly_ could not afford for him to be careless.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He stepped forward, into the flat in which Charles Hawthorne lived. Sherlock had walked through grisly crime scenes - places in which deranged murderers plied their trade. He'd stepped over barely cold bodies, blood, instruments of torture - anything and everything that might be written into a grisly horror film. But never in all those times had the consulting detective felt any emotion stirring within his breast. No sorrow for the victims or anger at the perpetrators for what they'd done. His ability to detach and remain focused on the facts was not only a natural part of his makeup but mandatory for his own sanity. Too many detectives allowed themselves to become emotionally invested in their cases - thus subjecting themselves to all manner of psychological distress. Sherlock, however, was impervious to this inconvenience.

At least, he used to be.

Before he'd touched Molly Hooper's cheek and felt the soft skin of her hand in his. Before he realized that when she wasn't around, he missed not only her presence, but her smell, her laugh, even her damnable hideous jumpers. Those insidious tendrils of emotion had wound their way through his heart and found a solid root in his chest.

Molly has somehow become his touchstone…and Charles Hawthorne had taken her from him.

For that, Charles Hawthorne would pay. Dearly.

Sherlock's jaw clenched involuntarily as moved through the small flat. Rather than fight the adrenaline that surged forth - damnable emotions, once again - he allowed it to fuel him - give him focus.

Sherlock stopped first at the small desk that occupied the space just below the one window in the room. Office supplies sat in a row on the top, right corner while four file folders lay on the opposite corner. Sherlock picked up the first and opened it, wondering silently if the contents might be pictures of Molly. But, no, the folder contained blueprints and notes related to a new office building.

Charles Hawthorne was an engineer. _Not a bad one at that_ , he reluctantly thought to himself as he closed the folder and replaced it on the desk.

A quick survey of the room revealed that its occupant enjoyed a sparse existence. No pictures hung on the walls, the carpet appeared spotless and no other furniture decorated the room. The detective turned to the left and entered the small kitchen. Once again, Hawthorne's obsession with cleanliness and order was on firm display. A small table and one chair were set against the wall - making the already cramped space even more so. The counters were clean (the lingering smell of disinfectant hung in the air) and each drawer Sherlock opened was meticulously organized.

Leaving the kitchen, Sherlock then made his way around the corner to the bedroom. He'd barely cleared the open door before his eyes zeroed in on the white piece of paper placed in the center of the bed.

Hawthorne had left him a fucking _note_.

Sherlock approached slowly - as if there might be booby traps hidden somewhere in the flat. That particular piece of conjecture was not so far fetched as he might have once thought - Hawthorne had so far proven himself to be a man willing to go to any lengths to get what he wanted.

He would find that Sherlock was willing to go farther.

He stood directly in front of the bed and looked down at the paper. Computer generated. Large enough font to be read from where he stood - which, in point of fact, was a good thing. Sherlock would not pick it up - not only to avoid tampering with any evidence - but because the very idea of putting his hands on something that Hawthorne had meant to taunt him with felt as if he was surrendering to the madman's plan.

Sherlock stuffed his clenched fists into his pockets and read:

_Mr. Holmes:_

_Welcome to my home. I knew you would find your way here. You will keep trying to find my Molly and me, but you should stop. Stop because Molly deserves better. She needs someone who will protect her and take care of her. You are not that man. You use Molly for your own ends and that puts her in danger. She isn't safe with you and never will be._

_I will care for her as you cannot. I will love her for who she is, not for what she can do for me._

_Be warned, if you try to come for Molly, your actions will have consequences. For you, for her, and for all of us._

_CH_

Sherlock's chest pounded as he read the last line of the letter once more. Consequences. For Molly. The bastard claimed to do all this to protect her but was willing to hurt her if Sherlock dared interfere with whatever he had planned.

 _Hurt the little church mouse or worse... It's the or worse that could be your undoing,_ a voice that sounded like Mycroft's parroted in his mind.

He stepped to the side, turning in order to continue his search of Hawthorne's bedroom when he heard James' voice directly behind him, "I'm gonna tear that blighter apart with my bare hands."

Sherlock twisted his neck and met James' eyes. The rage burning in Sherlock's chest echoed in the bodyguard's face.

"I'll be more than happy to oblige when the time comes," Sherlock nodded.

A beat passed between them and in that moment Sherlock knew that James would not hesitate to ensure Charles Hawthorne met with a messy end. Sherlock, for his part, wanted to see Hawthorne strung up - bloodied and writhing in pain for daring to lay one finger on his pathologist. But when the moment came, could he actually become the monster he hunted? Could he end the man's life without a second thought?

 _If Molly's life was at stake you would,_ the John Watson echo in his mind piped up.

Maybe. Maybe if it came right down to it, he could put a gun to Charles Hawthorne's head and pull the trigger. No, he thought, he definitely could. The cost to his conscience was a small price to pay for Molly's safety. But what about the cost to Molly? His mind whispered. What about the cost to you both, if you take a life again?

A saying about bridges and when one should go about their crossing popped into his mind and he pushed the thought away.

Sherlock nodded to James who took a breath and stepped back, glancing once more at the letter, his jaw clenched and lips pursed together so tightly, they turned white.

Sherlock resumed his survey of the room and moved to the dressing table. He opened the first drawer; a few pairs of underpants and socks were scattered haphazardly in the small space. The second drawer held only a few shirts.

It was the final drawer that caused Sherlock's stomach to roil. Pictures and mementos of Molly were strewn about the drawer. His long fingers delicately sifted through the items - A few newspaper clippings, pictures of Molly (shopping, walking along the street, talking with someone he didn't recognize), a small figurine of an angel (the twin to the one Hawthorne had left in the morgue), and objects he knew must have been taken from Molly's flat. A hair-clip. A lipstick. A pair - Sherlock grimaced - a pair of pink cotton knickers which were clearly barely worn. There were enough items there for Holmes to realize that Hawthorne had made breaking into her home a regular occurrence: Molly could have been there the same time the psychotic bastard had chosen to pay a visit.

Questions began to flood his already overtaxed brain. Did he watch her? Touch her? Had he leaned over her as she lay, fragile and vulnerable in sleep, and let his vile breath taint her lovely skin? What was he doing to her at this moment? Would she suffer as Kitty Riley had? Or worse? Would Sherlock find her lifeless body and empty, glassy eyes staring back at him when he finally found her, his Molly made an angel by a man who thought he'd more right than she to choose her fate?

Sherlock crouched there, in front of the open drawer, a violent anger roiling through his chest, the oppressive weight of fear flooding his mind. Fear for Molly - but selfish fear for himself too. He couldn't do this, this _life business_ , without Molly Hooper. For as much as he silently protested the idea of emotional involvement - of being bound to another person - the resolution had set in.

Once he got Molly back, he would never part from her again.

His head pounded, body flushed with heat as blackness played at the corners of his vision, the pressure of emotion pushing down on his chest. Sherlock took a deep breath in, the influx of oxygen cutting the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He braced his hand on one knee and stood up. He took the time to breathe again, to rid himself of the distracting chaos of his feelings.

Feeling wouldn't get her back. Only clarity would do that.

And clarity, fortunately, was the one thing at which he had always excelled.

The vibration of his phone caused Sherlock's eyes to snap open. He reached into his coat pocket, releasing a still held breath as he saw John's name on the display screen. He slid his finger across the display and placed the phone to his ear.

"What do we have, John?"

"We've almost got him, Sherlock." His friend's voice was elevated with excitement. "The bastard might be slippery but he's no mastermind. Left a trail bigger than Nessie tromping around the highlands."

"Give me the facts, Watson."

"Right. He works at an engineering firm. According to his supervisor, he's a smart bloke, good worker, but a loner - An odd man out. In the last year, he's been leaving work early, asking for days off that he never did before - Just acting out of sorts. Three days ago, he called and said he needed some time off - Didn't say for how long."

"John, none of this less than fascinating diatribe is giving me anything…"

He was swiftly interrupted. "Shut it, great detective, I'm coming to that. We talked around and found out that Hawthorne had mentioned buying and selling property. It's a hobby. Buys a house, spruces it up and sells it. Made quite a penny doing it too…"

" _Watson_ …" He ground out the words through clenched teeth.

"Right. Turns out, just in the last few months, he'd been following the chaps from work to local pubs and chatting them up. One of them is best mates with our Detective Sergeant Moore. Moore's chum said Hawthorne asked them questions about holiday spots - Places they go with their families, that sort of thing."

In an instant, Sherlock knew what Hawthorne had done. "Where? What places did they tell him to go?"

John began to rattle off some names - Sherlock dismissed the ones not within driving distance of London and then…

"Stop, John. Darlington. That's where he took her. It's not a long enough drive that he'd have to take a ferry or give her too much medication. There are plenty of relatively isolated cottages there that would suit his purposes."

_His purposes for Molly._

Sherlock forced the bile in his throat down.

"He would have purchased the home with cash," he said instead, "tell Mycroft to look through his accounts and correlate cash sales with his withdrawals. James and I are leaving now-"

And before his best friend could respond, Sherlock had pressed End and was halfway out of Hawthorne's flat with James - his ever present, deadly shadow - following behind.

"You carry a firearm, am I correct, James?" He threw the question behind him as they flew down back down the stairs just as quickly as they'd ascended.

"At all times, sir."

"Don't hesitate to shoot Charles Hawthorne the first chance you get, then."

"With pleasure, sir."

~oOo~

For the third time that day, Molly woke from an unnatural, forced sleep. But this time, medication no longer clouded her mind and she was immediately thrust into consciousness. Her eyes snapped open and she jerked her body up - sitting bolt upright on the couch as she frantically looked around the room.

Empty and everything in order - the lamp she'd used to try and assault Her captor with sitting just as it was when she'd picked it up earlier. Molly turned toward the kitchen area and saw food arranged on the counter - her traitorous stomach growled at the idea of eating. She stood - the faint clinking of metal jarring her memory.

Molly looked down at her left wrist. Her breath hitched at seeing the metal encasing her arm. But the true horror lay in where the handcuffs had been secured. He had taken steps to install a metal bolt into the wood floor. The hunger that had reared its head only a moment ago vanished instantly as her stomach roiled in protest. The other cuff was attached to a chain approximately four feet long - enough to give her room to move, but not enough to allow her to take more than a few steps away from the couch. Certainly not enough to get her to the door.

She dropped to her knees, examining the connection of the chain to the bolt, hoping to see some way to extract herself. Her fingers desperately traced over the metal, pulling at the base of the bolt, prying desperately to see if there was any give. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she worked fruitlessly to extricate herself.

If it took all night - if it took months or...longer...Molly would get out. She would not be chained like an animal for Hawthorne to do with as he pleased. He would find out the hard way that Mousy Molly Hooper - one of Kitty Riley's less colorful nicknames for her - would not sit idly by and become his plaything.

Strong Molly was going to kick his arse.

 _The right time, Molly. Watch and wait._ The Sherlock voice whispered his reminder as she moved herself back up to sit on the couch.

"I see you're awake, Molly." She stiffened at the sound of his voice.

Molly turned slightly to see the man standing by the counter, smiling - hands held behind his back. She was struck once again at how _benign_ he looked. When news reports interviewed the neighbors of serial killers, they almost always said how nice the murderer was. How normal they seemed. In the lab, Molly pictured the perpetrators of crimes as grisly, scarred and terrifying individuals - it brought a sense of detachment to not think that a normal human was capable of such evil.

Yet here she sat, just a few feet away from a man who, she fully understood, was capable of the type of vicious acts she'd seen on the corpses in the morgue.

Molly was determined not to be one of those victims.

"Yes...Colin."  She forced the polite tone in her voice even as it turned her stomach to do so. 

Her captor shook him head and smiled shyly. "Oh, my name isn't Colin Moore. An unfortunate ruse I was forced to employ." He spoke as benignly as if he was speaking about the daily news. 

"I am Charles Hawthorne, my lady. At your service." He bowed and chuckled to himself at his display of chivalry. He then stood up and brought his hand from behind his back and gestured to the food. "Would you care for something to eat? You must be hungry after all the excitement today."

She set her jaw, resisting the urge to spout the first thing that came into her mind. No, if she were to have hope of escape, Molly needed to play her cards right.

Molly nodded. "Yes, food would be lovely, thank you." A beat, as she thought of something. Something which might end up helping her. "It's nice to have a man give me something to eat," she mumbled, trying to sound as if the admission were grudging. "Sherlock...well, Sherlock never lets me eat. Says it's disgusting."

And she dropped her eyes to the floor, unwilling to let Hawthorne see the lie in them.

For a moment she held her breath, wondering whether that was laying it on a bit thick. Surely Hawthorne would see through such an obvious ruse? But the man's smile widened and he stepped forward to fill a plate for her - obviously not taking any chances with releasing her to come to the table, but taking her words at face value all the same. It was an interesting piece of information, that.

Apparently, he liked the idea of a Molly who was starting to see him in a better light than Sherlock Holmes.

Inwardly, Molly felt herself relax a little as she realized her gambit's success. She would watch him carefully. She would tell him what he wanted to hear. She would watch and wait and when Charles Hawthorne let his guard down, she would be ready.

The Sherlock in her head whispered that he was proud of her for her gumption and for the first time since this nightmare began Molly was tempted to smile.

~oOo~


	14. A Gal With A Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for the delay. No excuses, but you are now rewarded with a nice, long chapter filled with action-y goodness.
> 
> Thanks, thanks and more thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her spectacular beta. Go and read her stuff to enrich your life.

Molly’s best friend as a child had been a sweet, freckle faced girl named Alice.  Molly had been jealous (she honestly still was) of Alice’s strawberry blonde hair that exploded from her head in a wild mass of tangled curls.  But Alice’s home was far from stable.  Her father was a widower with four children to raise and he took out his frustrations on his children.   A dirty counter would result in a large hand gripping Alice’s arm hard enough to leave bruises.  Shoes strewn about the foyer and stairway ensured that all the children would spend thirty minutes on their knees - resting on their backsides resolutely forbidden - as they contemplated their sin.

The man standing in the kitchen reminded her of Alice’s father; seemingly harmless unless something provoked his wrath.  

She watched Hawthorne pluck a napkin from the counter and arrange items on the plate.  Ever so quickly, she saw his hand glance over his left trouser pocket - as if ensuring something was still there.   _Mental note, old girl_ , she whispered in her head. _Whatever’s in there must be important to him_. Satisfied all was in order, he made his way to where she sat, the plate of food sitting atop the open palm of his hand - a perverse imitation of a waiter.  He stepped to the couch and took a seat next to Molly on the small sofa.  With a flick of his wrist, the paper napkin opened and he laid it gently on her lap. Molly tensed.  

 _Easy now, Molly.  Play the game._  She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She held out her hand to take the paper plate, consciously avoiding touching his hands and smiled as he handed it to her.  “Thank you.  I’m famished.”

As if nothing about the situation were out of the ordinary, Hawthorne leaned back against the cushions and draped his forearm over the armrest.  

“I should imagine.  It’s been quite a busy few days for you.”

He tilted his head and smiled.  

Molly wanted to throw the plate at him and scream.  A busy few days?  She searched his face.  Relaxed.  In control.  Content.  Being stalked, drugged, kidnapped and chained to the floor was, in Hawthorne’s mind, no more of a bizarre and stressful situation than running out of petrol.  Molly needed to come up with a plan.  Fast.

She pushed down the anger that threatened to blur her focus.  The edges of her mouth tilted upward in a slight, demure smile.  “Quite busy, yes.”  Molly took a bite of the sandwich he’d prepared - consciously forcing herself to swallow despite the sourness of her stomach.  She turned her head to the left, in the direction of the small stone hearth and the empty, cold fireplace.  

_Play the part, but change his script._

“It’s good to see you eat, Molly.  You don’t take care of yourself like you should.”  His hand slid across her knee before patting it twice.  She forced herself to look up into his eyes and nod.  

“I suppose I get distracted.  I do love my work.”

Hawthorne clicked his tongue and shook his head, shifting forward.  “No, it’s not that.  Not your fault in the least.”  She could see the muscles in his jaw tense.  “It’s his.   _He’s_ the distraction.”  

He spat the words as if they were poison on his tongue.

“Sherlock Holmes is a selfish prat, Molly.” He stated it matter-of-factly. “He’s using you for his own ends, you see that, don’t you?

“You deserve to be taken care of.  Protected.  I can make that happen.”

Molly pulled her shoulders up in a resigned shrug.

“Well, sometimes he is a difficult man,” she allows. She has to play this well, even if she hates saying the words. “ But he seems to care about what happens to me...”  

Hawthorne turned to his side, facing Molly.  “He cares about _himself_ ,” he snapped. “He cares about what you can do for him.” He reached out, taking her hand and Molly had to force herself not to flinch.

“I know how hard you work, Molly,”  he says tightly. “ _I_ know that but Holmes won’t ever admit it. He was gone for two years without a word while you toiled away at the hospital.  He bandies about London without a thought to what his actions might mean for you-”

Hawthorne stopped and closed his eyes briefly in an apparent bid to calm himself.  Molly could see the tenuous hold he had on his emotions.  The tremble in his voice and flurry of his fingers tapping his palm belied the unruffled exterior he wished to project.   _That was what made him dangerous._  

Pushing that cord to snap would not end well for Molly - or Sherlock.

“I suppose you’re right.” Her voice was soft, deferential.  She had to play this well, she might not have another shot. “I just wanted so much for him...for someone...to take an interest.”  Molly dipped her head slightly.  Stared at her hands, clasping them together. “Men aren’t exactly clamoring for woman who works with dead people.”

“Well, those men are spectacular arseholes.”  Hawthorne shook his head.  “Sorry.  There goes my language again.”  He smiled again - managing to look innocent and menacingly evil at the same time.  It chilled her to the bone. “You’re an angel, Molly Hooper.” He patted her knee once more - her skin crawling at the contact. “And I’m going to take care of you.”

She nodded, smiled gently and took another bite of her sandwich.  As she swallowed (the food really did taste like sawdust now), she glanced down and saw the outline of an object in Hawthorne’s pocket.  

It appeared quite like the key to a set of handcuffs.

Molly blinked and found her captor’s eyes with her own.  “May I have something to drink, please?  I seem to be a bit parched.”

He rose to his feet, turned to her and bowed.  “Anything for my lady.”  Once again, Hawthorne chuckled at his own joke and returned to the small kitchen.

She had a plan.  Albeit, a hastily formed and probably ill-conceived plan.  But it would have to be enough.  

And, hopefully, when all was said and done, she wouldn’t be dead as a result.

~oOo~

Sherlock looked up from the GPS on his phone and waved his hand. “Pull off on that lane and park.  We’re close.”

James did as Sherlock instructed and, a few minutes after Sherlock’s clipped instruction, the car was parked to the side of a gravel lane.  Sherlock took a deep breath as he often did to clear out the clutter in his constantly working mind.  Unfortunately, that normally useful tool from the manual of Sherlock Holmes Detective Skills and Other Things He Does So Well fell utterly and completely flat.  There was no option to remain calm as he normally did so expertly.  No, right now the best he could muster was not gritting his teeth together, yelling or punching everything - everyone - in sight.

Once this mess had been sorted and Molly returned to where she belonged - right back by his side - then he would return to Sherlock Holmes, unaffected consulting detective, something which…which if he was to be completely honest with himself, was utter bollocks.  

He would never be unaffected again, not where Molly Hooper was concerned.  

The little mouse from St. Bart’s had burrowed her way firmly inside his chest and, surprisingly, he had no intention of making her leave-

 _If the big bad wolf hasn’t gobbled her up already, that is_ \- the Mycroft voice whispered in his head.

Sherlock growled to himself, irritated. Punching someone - his arrogant sod of a brother, preferably - would have been a great relief right now.

Holding the phone in one hand, Sherlock opened the car door.  James mirrored his own action - pausing briefly to double check the gun in his shoulder holster.

Sherlock held up the phone so that the other man could see the map and raised his arm to point in front of them.  “There.  Just under a kilometer to the north.  We’ll examine the perimeter and determine our course of action from there.”  

James gave a single, somehow menacing nod.

“Just us two then.”  

Sherlock regarded the other man carefully.  It wasn’t a question.  It was a statement.  James The Ever Stalwart was itching to see this through.  Anxious to see the previous injustice done to him by Charles Hawthorne set to rights.

It was good to know there was someone who was taking this just as seriously as he.

“I think just us should be sufficient, don’t you?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded and the side of his mouth rose in a smirk.  

“Mr. Holmes, an army couldn’t survive against you and I.  Even with one gun between us.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose and a small smile played over his lips.  Yes, he certainly did like this James fellow.

“Well, then, let’s get back our girl,” he said and with that they headed down the lane.

~oOo~

Hawthorne returned to Molly a few moments later with a glass filled with water.  When he placed it in her hand, Molly almost chuffed out loud at how happy she was at the feel of the heavy glass in her hand. Her heart hammered in her chest.  She was about to either get herself free or be on the receiving end of Hawthorne’s psychotic punishment.  Either way, when all was said and done, Sherlock would no doubt be spectacularly furious with what she was about to do.

Her captor smiled again.  “I can’t wait to show you around the house, my angel.  I’ve made everything up just for you.  I know you’ll love it here.”  His cheeks actually flushed red.  “It’s a proper home for a young couple, I think.”

If Molly had harbored any doubts about whether Hawthorne might be reasoned with, they evaporated in that moment.  He was utterly gone.  Consumed by the fantasy that he and Molly would live some kind of happily ever after in this home. She would not be the victim of his twisted version of a fairy tale any longer.

Molly took a sip and smiled.  “Much better.”  She looked toward the television opposite the sofa.  “Would you mind if we watched something on the telly?”

“Well, yes, of course.”  Hawthorne seemed delighted at the idea and stood up to cross the room.  As he was reaching for the remote, Molly took the arm holding the glass and firmly threw it across her body towards the stone hearth.  She was rewarded with the sound of shattered glass and leapt to her feet, the plate on her lap clattering to the floor.

Molly frantically grabbed at the glass, careful not to cut herself. Bleeding wouldn’t do at all.  “Oh, I’m so sorry!  I just wanted to put it on the table and it slipped!  Sherlock always said I was clumsy and stupid!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw him approach.   _That’s it.  Closer._  He crouched down next to her and Molly looked up, her face a feigned mask of embarrassment.  The corner of Hawthorne’s mouth rose in a chilling smile.  “Now don’t you worry, my Molly…”

 _I am **not** your Molly _ \- her mind screamed as she shot her arm up and impaled a palm-sized shard of glass in Hawthorne’s neck.  In the same movement, Molly pushed on his knee, sending him on to his rear end on the throw rug.  His hand flew flew up to his wound but not before Molly pulled the glass out out and slammed it into his bare forearm - dragging it down toward his wrist.

Hawthorne was stunned but that didn’t stop him from lunging toward her.  She reared back and that’s when her fingertips blessedly found the plate on the floor.  Molly grabbed it and struck him in the side of the head - the ceramic shattering from the force. The blow managed to stop him short, crying out from the pain.  She used that brief miracle to finish her work, dropping the glass and digging into his pocket.

She was rewarded with a handcuff key.  Molly moved backward but felt Hawthorne’s hands grab her wrists - he’d come out of his stupor quickly enough.  Her head shot up and the two of them locked eyes.  The shock in his gaze had been replaced by fury - she saw the insanity buried behind the once-calm facade.  But she would not cower.   Strong Molly was in charge now and Charles Hawthorne would understand just who he’d made the mistake of terrorizing.

“I’d suggest that you release me.”  Her voice was steady and low.  “If, that is, you plan on not bleeding out in the next two minutes.”  His grip on her wrists loosened only slightly.  “I’m a pathologist, in case you forgot that fact.  I know how people die.  And, in your case, I anticipate you’ll be unconscious in less than a minute.”

 _You’re gambling, Molls.  Keep that poker face solid or you’re up the creek_ \- a voice that echoed Mary warned her.

Hawthorne’s face fell slightly and Molly pressed her luck.  “And if you keep me locked up, I won’t be able to help put pressure on your wounds.  I’ve punctured your jugular and cephalic veins.  If you want even a chance of not dying from blood loss within thirty minutes, I suggest you let me free myself immediately.”

Molly wasn’t adept at lying - and, oh my, how she was lying.  She’d not hit any of those veins (maybe nicked the jugular) and she sincerely hoped that her stalker’s obsession with her didn’t include pathology.  If he saw through her bluff, he would most certainly not let her off with a little choke hold.  

He broke eye contact before dropping his right hand and putting his left back up to his neck.  Her gamble had worked.

Molly knew he wouldn’t surrender so easily and that it was entirely probable he would recapture her quickly, but she had no choice.  She scooted backward on the floor, away from him as much as possible, before inserting the key into the cuff on her wrist. The sound of it unlatching was as beautiful as any music. She smiled and then looked back to Hawthorne.  

“Now, I’ll get some towels.  Lay down.”  

Another gamble.  He started to shift and that’s when Molly darted forward and slapped the cuff around his ankle.   It was her turn to smile - and smile she did as she threw the key across the room.

Her defiance of him seemed to spur Hawthorne to action and he lunged at her, grabbing her, once again, by the throat.  Her head impacted the wood floor - narrowly missing the hearth, thank goodness - but, this time, she wasn’t felled by fear or confusion. _She was running on pure adrenaline now_.  Molly brought her fist up and punched the wound on his throat.  That made him falter, but only slightly.  His grip tightened on her throat.  Molly shifted her body underneath him and managed to bring her knee up and solidly slam into his groin.  The blow hit home - literally.

Hawthorne’s grip remained on her throat, but he was forced to sit back as the pain rocketed through him. Spurred on by her success, Molly placed her thumbs over the man’s eyes and began to press.  She tried to push away the thought of how much she was hurting him and how utterly repulsive it was to actually feel the give of his eyes beneath her touch.  Violence was much easier to handle when all you had to do was piece together the circumstances of a death.

 _Survive, Molly.  Fight back._ \- the Mary-voice shouted again.

_It doesn’t matter how disgusting it feels- What he’d do to you would be a hundred times worse._

When Hawthorne failed at shaking her off, his hands came off her throat and grabbed her wrists.  But now it was he that was off balance, and Molly shot her arms outward, brought her knees up to her chest and pushed forward as hard as she could.  It was enough.  Hawthorne fell backward and Molly was able to wrench her arms from his grasp.  She rolled herself away and scooted on her hands and feet back to the kitchen counter - well away from him.

He hissed and pulled at his chain like a dog but she was well out of his reach.

She panted, the adrenaline fresh and hot as it continued to pulse through her body.  Her plan had worked - at least up to this point.  Now she had to figure out how to get herself out of this place.

As if in answer to her conundrum, the door’s windowpane shattered, followed by the door itself flinging inward with an ear-shattering bang.  Into the room burst a wild-eyed Sherlock Holmes whose attention was first drawn to the curled up and bleeding form of Charles Hawthorne lying on the floor.  He turned his head to the side and locked eyes with Molly.

Molly sighed and smiled lopsidedly.

“You’re late,” she said.

~oOo~

The first thing he noticed was that Charles Hawthorne was covered in blood.  He lay in a ball on the floor, his ankle handcuffed to a bolt in the floor - that would need some explanation later - blood covering his face and hands.  A small pool of it glistened on the floor.  

Panic flooded his brain.  Molly.  Where was…

“You’re late.”

He whipped his head to the side and there she was, leaning against a small counter, her legs splayed out in front of her and...blood.  Yes, blood on her neck, her hands, her cheek. She wasn’t shaking. She didn’t appear to be bleeding. Bruises aren’t the same as cuts, he reminded himself as he stared at her, half-horrified and half-relieved.

His Molly looked like hell.  Yet there she sat...smiling at him in that shy, knowing way.  The smile that shifted him off his axis and bid him do anything for her.  The smile that shouldn’t be there.  Yet. It was. _She_ was.

Sherlock crossed the room in no time thanks to his impossibly long legs and he dropped to his knees next to Molly.  His hands came up to inspect her neck (slight swelling, bruising will be evident soon), her hands (no cuts or obvious wounds), and her face (nothing presented).   He was only slightly aware of her speaking.

“Sherlock.”

He couldn’t stop his hands from inspecting her skull(small bump on the back of her head), from assuring himself that she was intact - _alive_.

“ _Sherlock_.”

He stopped.  Looked her in the eyes.  He had no words with which to speak.

“I’m fine.”  She was trying to reassure him.   _Him_.  While she sat on the floor of a house in which she’d been brought for purposes that turned his stomach.  She wasn’t fine.  And it was Hawthorne’s doing.  He was at fault for everything that had happened to his Molly.  

“Sherlock, stop.”

That he could not do.  He couldn’t stop the flurry of thoughts - impulses - that coursed through him in that moment.  Charles Hawthorne had taken someone precious to him.  Hurt her.  Terrorized her.  For that, the man deserved all manner of torture that he could conjure- _and William Scott Sherlock Holmes could conjurer rather a lot_. He turned and looked at the man who now lay on the floor staring at the two of them.  The rage that had fueled him took root and coiled low and deep in his belly.  His focus was drawn once again to  the bolt in the floor, the chain attached to it and the handcuff around Hawthorne’s foot.  Sherlock then turned and traced his finger over Molly’s ankles.  

“He chained you.”  The words slithered through gritted teeth.  “Chained you to the fucking floor.”

“Yes, but…”

There were no ‘buts’ to be had in Sherlock’s mind.  There was no way to excuse, defend or reconcile anything the man had done.  

_How could anybody bear to do this to his Molly?_

“I’m going to kill him.”  A fact.  A declaration.  A promise.  “I’m going to make him pay for this...”

Emotion was not an easy thing for Sherlock.  This entire experience with his new closeness to Molly had set him off kilter.  But it was worth it in the long run.   _She_ was worth it.  Sitting in this place, seeing the damage Hawthorne had wrought physically and emotionally to Molly, Sherlock wanted - _no, needed_ \- to hurt him.

Molly’s hands grasped his arms.   _She knew him well._ “You won’t, Sherlock.  That’s not who you are.”

“It’s who I could be.”

She shook her head. “It’s not who you want to be. And it’s not who I want you to be either.”

And with that she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in close to her. James stepped into the room, gun drawn.  He regarded Hawthorne on the floor and then brought his attention to where Sherlock and Molly sat.  

Sherlock spoke softly as he rose to his feet.  “James, give me your weapon.”

The bodyguard’s forehead creased with an unspoken question, but he didn’t move.

Molly scrambled up and blocked Sherlock from moving forward.  He considered her for a moment and took a step when he felt her hands on his face. Those small, sweet hands that had tentatively grasped his at the restaurant. That had splayed across his back when he’d embraced her in the lab.  Molly’s beautiful hands now stained with a psychopath’s blood.  He felt his jaw clench anew.

“Please, Sherlock.  For me.  I know you’re angry.  He’s a horrible person.  But _you’re not_.  You’re not a man to kill someone like that.  Please.”

He looked at her.  Well and truly searched her face.  His Molly was a wellspring of emotion - quite his opposite in that regard.  Worry and concern lined her brow, but there was a softness to her that belied the gruesome circumstances.  She cared for him more than she cared for herself.

“Molly, he has to pay.”

“He will.  I promise he will.  Mycroft will see to that.”

In truth, his brother _would_ see to it.  If there was one aspect about his brother on which he could rely, it was that Mycroft Holmes would take great joy in showering pain and suffering upon those who interfered with his family.  His brother may be an arrogant pillock, but Sherlock knew that if he asked his brother to make Charles Hawthorne experience new and differing levels of agony, he would comply.  Happily.

Sherlock sighed, brought his hands to her waist and bent toward her to touch his forehead to hers.  The contact - her touch - centered him.  Unwound the fury that had entwined itself around his chest.

“For you, my Molly.”

A guttural “No,” sounded from the prone form of Charles Hawthorne.  His eyes darted from Molly to the source of all their trouble.  The kidnapper was moving now, attempting to sit up - reaching his bloodied hand out towards the woman he’d hurt so much.

Sherlock’s body tensed but before he could react, James swung his leg and slammed his booted foot into Hawthorne’s stomach.  The man’s groan of pain filled the small room.  The sound pleased Sherlock immeasurably.

“You’ll not be layin’ a finger on her no more, you sick bastard.”  James growled.  The bodyguard looked up and Sherlock nodded his approval.  Yes, he did like this James character.

Sherlock gently turned Molly and brought her flush with the side of his body as he walked her toward the door.  He would leave James to stand guard over Charles Hawthorne until Mycroft's people arrived.  He didn’t want Molly inside the house any longer than need be.

He wasn’t sure what would happen were she to ask it of him.

He ushered her outside and when they were clear of the door, gathered her back into his arms.  Tucked her head under his chin and smelled her hair.  Felt her warmth against him.  She was there.  Alive and _his_.  It seemed that he might be making progress with this whole physical intimacy area for, in this moment, nothing seemed more right to him than Molly Hooper in his arms.

Nothing would ever feel more right again.

He felt Molly draw back slightly.  Sherlock looked down and saw her soft smile, her lovely eyes.  She was quite fetching - even mired in blood and sweat.  Maybe _especially_ because she was in such a state.  He chose not to dwell on how wrong that particular inclination that might be. _He was a sociopath, after all._

“My brave Molly.” he told her. “You seem to have rescued yourself.”

The corner of her mouth shifted upward in a smile.  “Yes, well, I am quite capable, you know.”

He returned the smile.  “Yes, Molly Hooper.  Yes you are.”

She nestled her head back under his chin and he closed his eyes. After a moment she relaxed against him, her grip on him tightening as she pulled him near. He heard her sigh, a lovely, sweet thing and in that moment he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to move from this position.

He supposed that this relationship business might not be such a tedious thing after all.

 ~oOo~


	15. Definitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. I'm so sorry. Like so…so sorry. Writer's block just crippled me on this one in a wicked way. So, this is the final chapter. I wanted to end it on a nice note (with a first kiss!). Thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for kicking my brain into gear and helping me to finish this one out. She's got more stories out (Nil by Mouth is the latest and it's absolutely beautiful) go check her out please.
> 
> Thanks for all of your amazing comments and kudos.

~oOo~

Sherlock was… brooding.

Two hours after he'd rescued...no...he'd done nothing of the sort. Molly had quite capably rescued herself, after all. Two hours after he'd _found_ Molly, they arrived at Baker Street. Throughout the helicopter ride (thanks to Mycroft's way with high-profile strings in Her Majesty's Government) and taxi home, he could see exhaustion covering her as if it were a weighted cloak. Despite her outward bravado - smiles to the pilot, thank you's to the taxi driver - she'd clung to him, picking at the dried blood ( _Hawthorne's? Hers? His stomach churned anew_ ) under her nails as she snuggled herself into his side. He'd wished that he could have truly put her safely in his pocket to warm and comfort her... Yet all he could do was tuck her securely to him while he distracted her with comments about the landscape or the passersby.

Lame efforts at best, he told himself, but, for her, he would do what he could - no matter how insignificant it might seem - in order to help her feel safe.

He owed her that much.

The journey to Baker Street seemed to take forever, but eventually it came to an end. He and Molly (Bodyguard James remained on guard at the front door) had no sooner stepped on the stairway to his flat when Mary practically flung herself out of the door. The pounding of her best friend's shoes reverberated in the small space as she reached Molly and enveloped her in a fierce hug. Sherlock looked up to the top of the stairs to see the faces of Mrs. Hudson and John peeking out of the doorway - relief evident in their shining eyes.

He prepared to reprimand the unwelcome group of visitors (at this moment anyone coming between him and Molly were practically invaders) when Molly's voice broke the silence.

"Oh, _Mary_ …" Molly's voice was muffled - cracking - as she spoke into Mary's shoulder. "Mary, it was…"

And then Molly was crying.

She hadn't cried during the trip here - Sherlock thought - hadn't given any indication of _needing_ to cry, in any case. If she had, he'd, yet again, spectacularly failed to see the signs. Because here she stood, her shoulders and back pulsating up and down as the sobs poured forth. Mary's hands traveled over Molly's back as she swayed from side to side while whispering soothing words to her friend.

Sherlock clenched his fists - the anger that had mostly subsided since their departure from Hawthorne's location returned in a rush. Seeing Molly, bloodied and huddled against the wall in that house was one thing. Watching her break down emotionally, the aftermath of all she'd endured, was almost enough to propel him back out the door to track down and beat Charles Hawthorne, quite literally, to death.

But before he set about in his plan to ruthlessly murder Molly's kidnapper, it startled him to realize that nothing right now (maybe...ever) was about Sherlock Holmes. It was most certainly about Molly Hooper and what - who - she needed right now. And right now, she needed him not to be a first class pillock running about playing at revenge. She needed him to be with her. Molly needed all of them to be with her. Her friends. Her family.

Her...boyfriend.

To Sherlock's surprise, that word and all its implications wasn't quite as unsettling as it had been even a day ago. He understood what it meant now; Almost losing Molly had solidified the concept in his mind. _If he hadn't found her… if she hadn't gotten away…_ But 'boyfriend' didn't effectively define what Molly and he shared. It implied a casualness…an adolescent and simple interchange between two people that consisted of shallow conversation and nights out at the cinema or pub and maybe, admittedly, some snogging and groping in the dark. But that didn't encapsulate what he felt, or how he intended their relationship to move forward.

No, Molly and he wouldn't be classified in with normal, run-of-the-mill relationship definitions at all.

So he stepped forward and placed his hand lightly on the back of her head, stroking softly as Mary continued to rock her gently from side to side. A few more moments passed before the sobs turned to sniffling and Molly slowly stepped back from her friend's embrace.

Mary smiled at her and touched Molly's face before she nodded and turned, making her way back up the stairs. Sherlock once again pulled Molly to his side as they ascended one step at a time. They entered the flat, and Sherlock was thankful that, for once, Mrs. Hudson stood back and remained quiet. The last thing Molly needed right now was to be overwhelmed with well-wishes.

She simply smiled and said quietly, "It's wonderful to have you home, my dear."

Home. The turn of phrase should have jolted him. Made him anxious about the suggestion of what that might mean for him. But it didn't. When Molly had looked up at him during the helicopter ride - those big brown eyes weary with fatigue - and told him she wanted to go home, Baker Street was the only option in his mind. And when the taxi had pulled up to 221B, she didn't protest. Didn't correct his assumption.

Yes. Molly was home. Her mere presence made it so.

He walked her to the sofa, but Molly pulled up short and placed her hand on his arm. Sherlock glanced down to see her tired, but earnest smile.

"I'd relish a shower." She whispered, her eyes darting briefly around the room. He leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. Exhausted, bruised and terrorized she may be, but Molly Hooper would never be rude to her friends.

No, that was the "boyfriend's" job. And, if he could do nothing else for her, Sherlock would be that. So...

He cocked a droll eyebrow at the assembled party. Pretended not to hear John's chuckle of amusement at what he obviously knew was coming next. "While I'm certain Molly appreciates you all being here to welcome her home," he drawled, "she needs rest."

Mary nodded. "Quite right she does."

Sherlock's smile widened. "So kindly- to use a technical phrase- sling your collective hooks, everyone." He nods to Mary. "Even you, blondie."

Mary snorted. "You say the sweetest things." Nevertheless, Molly's best friend came forward again and placed her hands on either side of Molly's face. "You're home and safe now. Sherlock, John...Mrs. Hudson and me...we're going to take care of you." Mary kissed Molly on the cheek and winked, a warm, loving gesture that made Sherlock appreciate the woman even more than he already did.

Mary regarded Sherlock next. "I left her a few changes of clothes in your room. Get her fed and don't leave her side, yeah?"

Sherlock responded by pulling Molly closely into his side which seemed to be all the answer Mary needed. With a last glance, Mary and John picked up their coats and disappeared through the door. Mrs. Hudson patted Molly's arm on her way out. "The fridge is stocked and there's ice in the freezer so don't you worry about that. You ring if you need anything." And then she was gone too.

Sherlock and Molly stood in the quiet of his flat - her small, warm body flush against his. He opened himself to the moment. Relishing the feel - the smell - of her next to him. Relieved that not only was she safe, but that she was safe with _him_. He wanted her to know that. He wanted her to understand that she could be open with him - cry with him as she did with Mary. In order for her to truly trust him, he had to earn it - act like a proper bloke instead of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Prat.

The small movement of Molly's hands forced Sherlock out of his brief reverie. He turned and looked down at her small frame. She really was a tiny little thing, looking all the more fragile as she smiled wanly. Sherlock could see the strain in her face as she struggled to put him at ease. The telltale signs were evident - Molly didn't want to upset him. Her strength had waned and been replaced by exhaustion and unease. Even after all she'd been through, she was concerned for his feelings. Which, after all his protestations about relationships - about sentiment - was entirely understandable.

"Molly...my sweet, brave Molly." He placed his hands on her shoulders and shifted her to face him. "You needn't worry about me - or what I think about you...or us. You don't have to guard yourself from me."

The shift of her eyes to look away from him spoke more loudly than her words ever could.

He placed his hand under her chin and gently tilted it up. "Molly, I admit that a...relationship and its implications unsettled me. Frankly, it still does. I am not boyfriend material, as you well know and I am entirely sure that I will manage to disappoint you in a myriad of ways."

The words came forth more easily than he would have imagined. Molly did have a magical effect on him, after all. "But I intend to be there for you. Now. And in the future. If not as a...a paramour... then as something else. Anything else. It doesn't matter, because it will be with you- I want to be with you.

So I assure you, Molly Hooper, that there is nothing you could ever do to put me off..." He stroked the side of her face with his long fingers.

"You don't have to hide yourself from me. I don't _want_ you to. Alright?"

She nodded slowly. "Alright." Molly's quiet voice danced in his ears. How sweet it was to him. Soothing.

Her shoulders relaxed and the smile that spread across her face was genuine and warm. How he'd become accustomed to that face. That smile - awkward and hopeful- greeting him in the lab at all hours of the day and night. He was well and truly a spectacular git for ever thinking he could be content without Molly Hooper in his life.

For that, he supposed he owed The Great Psychopath, Charles Hawthorne a thank you.

_Send him a gift basket in prison - he can share it with his new friends._

He brought his hands to cup her face and studied her - truly seeing now all the beauty evident right in front of him. The grace and sweetness that epitomized Molly Hooper. Her eyes were expectant, but wary. When they'd stood in front of the Armenian restaurant, Sherlock had the inclination to kiss Molly. Wanted to. He'd shied away - the implication of what that one not-so-simple act would mean for his life had scared him.

Now, after all that had happened...after truly realizing that this _relationship_ was what he wanted, he wouldn't be shy any longer.

He brought his head down slowly and ghosted his lips across Molly's. Not surprisingly, they were just as soft as he could have imagined. The Woman's lips were hard, guarded. But Molly...oh, his Molly's were warm and pliant and gentle. She hesitated only slightly then welcomed his mouth on hers and opened to him. Kissed him back.

The sensation of her lips on his spurred feelings in his chest that no longer could be kept under lock and key.

That was her way of things. Molly always managed to weave her way through his carefully constructed suit of emotional armour. She always managed to manoeuvre herself beneath it, right next to his skin. His heart.

And, he supposed, he would be quite content to let her do so for as long as she pleased.

Molly separated herself from him and stood just underneath his chin, her eyes closed. He watched her take a deep breath to calm herself. Always trying to be in control, his Molly.

When she was ready, she looked up at him - her eyes still so full of spark and life despite all she'd experienced. He saw the wetness in her eyes - she was fighting the tears again - and he moved his thumbs to caress her cheeks. A smile worked it's way into the corners of her mouth.

"If I'm not to hide from you...that means you aren't to hide from me, either."

Sherlock smiled back. "I suppose that's right."

"If we are to be paramours...that is." Her eyes sparkled at the mention of the word and it made Sherlock's heart swell anew. It also made his cheeks redden.

_A good vocabulary really could get a man into trouble._

Rather than dwell on that he reached down, kissed her again. "You are a remarkable woman, Molly Hooper. I hope you know that."

Molly shrugged. "I've always known. You're the idiot who took so long to figure it out."

Sherlock laughed and pulled Molly into an embrace. He had been an idiot, alright. A quite spectacular one at that.

"Quite right." They held each other for a moment, the silence comfortable between them. "I'm afraid my being an idiot may continue for the foreseeable future, you know."

"Don't worry. I'm used to it by now."

Sherlock smiled. So long as she never developed an immunity to his idiocy they'd be just fine.

~oOo~

**You know the drill, y'all. I love you and love your feedback.**


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